Sacrifices
by ggo85
Summary: Louisa confronts the difficulties of being head teacher and a single mother . . . and dealing with Martin Ellingham.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

**This story is a continuation of "Two's a Crowd." It's helpful, but not necessary to read that story first.**

**My sincere thanks to my beta, Diane B. Her reviews were incredibly timely and her wonderful suggestions only made this story better. Any errors that remain are mine alone. I've done my best to adopt British conventions, if not spellings. However, we Yanks sometimes get it wrong and, if I've done so, my apologies to our friends across the pond.**

**The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement on any legal rights is intended.**

**The story is rated PG-13 for adult themes.**

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><p>Superstition has it that rain on your wedding day brings luck to your marriage.<p>

I certainly hoped it was true as guests and participants alike huddled under umbrellas as they sprinted into the church to escape the late afternoon Portwenn shower. From the car window, I saw Roger Fenn with Maureen and their twins in a double pram with plastic rain cover, Joe Penhale resplendent in his dress uniform, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs whom I knew had been married longer than anyone in Portwenn, and so many others. All headed to witness Martin and me getting married. Finally.

At least this time, neither Martin nor I would be a no-show. Both of us were in the car, both of us would walk into the church, both of us would walk down the aisle and say our vows – assuming neither of us chickened out at the last minute.

Out of some odd sense of propriety, I'd decided we should spend our wedding eve apart. So, because weeks ago I'd given up my cottage, I'd stayed the night with Joan and awakened to the sound of squawking chickens. I must admit it was with a sense of intense relief that I watched Martin's car pull up to the farm precisely an hour before the wedding.

Now, we were finally at the church, dressed in our finery. Stepping carefully out of Martin's car, I looked down with dismay at my pale pink shoes that I'd carefully chosen to match my petal pink suit and which now were about to get extremely muddy.

"Here you go." Martin put his macintosh around my shoulders and held a large umbrella over my head. I tucked my small bouquet of fresh cut white roses close to my chest and together we quickly covered the short distance to the vestibule.

I could hear the organ music from inside as we approached. Mrs. Tishell, bless her, had agreed to play for us again. Although she still carried a torch for Martin, his return to Portwenn, Tommy's birth, or both seemed to have mellowed her a bit, at least when it came to her interactions with me. The tune she played was familiar, but I was no Roger Fenn when it came to music and I couldn't quite place the melody.

Inside, Martin deposited our wet things in a corner as I tried to brush the brown spots from my shoes, frowning as my efforts only succeeded in making them look worse.

Bert Large stopped by on his way into the church and stared down at me rubbing my shoes. "You're not gettin' the cold feet this time are you, Louisa?" he asked.

I looked up with a start. "Of course not, I was just—"

"What about you, Doc? Going to go through with it this time, are ya?"

Given the embarrassing disaster that was our first attempt at marriage, the question was fair. Still, I was curious as to how Martin would answer.

"Yes, Bert. _We_ are going through with it, as you say."

"Good to hear." He nodded and made his way into the church.

"Leave them, Louisa." Martin said after watching me fuss for a minute. "No one's going to be looking at your shoes."

With a sigh of frustration, I gave up. "I suppose you're right. In a few minutes, we'll be married, dirty shoes and whatnot." When Martin didn't immediately reply, I looked up at him. "You do still want to get married, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"No cold feet, as Bert would say."

Martin shook his head and gave me an unusually warm smile. "None whatsoever. You?"

"No," I said. And then hoped that God wouldn't strike me dead for lying. That was a superstition I didn't need. Oh, I did love Martin and I did very much want to be his wife. But to say that no doubts had crossed my mind . . . I hoped there was a superstition that said a few uncertainties on your wedding day contributed to a stronger marriage.

I peeked into the narthex and was immediately overwhelmed with the sight and smell of flowers. Bouquets of every size and color lined the pews and altar – seemingly an army of roses and lilies and gardenias and carnations and . . . many more blooms I recognized but couldn't name. And the aroma of the lilies especially was overpowering and wonderfully beautiful. While it was breathtaking, I knew that I hadn't ordered anything nearly this elaborate.

"Do you like it?" Martin's voice came from behind me, his arm gently squeezing my waist.

"It's . . ." Words escaped me. "Oh, Martin, it's . . . thank you." I turned around and kissed him on the lips, wondering if it was unlucky to kiss the groom before being granted permission from the vicar.

Roger Fenn came rushing up. "Well, I'm glad to see you're actually here this time," he said even as his broad smile gave away his true feelings. "As the best man, I'm responsible for _you_ at least," he added, pointing to Martin. "Wouldn't want to be remiss in my duties, now would I?"

I'd decided to dispense with having Roger stand in for my father. I was the mother of Martin's child; I no longer needed anyone to "give me away." So, Martin had asked Roger to stand up for him.

And I'd chosen . . . I looked around. Where was she? Where was Joan and, more importantly, where was Tommy? She was supposed to bring him in the outfit I'd chosen for this special day. It wasn't like her to be late – especially not for her nephew's wedding.

Martin and Roger were chatting about something meaningless. I poked my head outside – there was still plenty of rain but no sign of Joan. I was now starting to worry.

"Martin!" I interrupted him in mid-sentence. "Where's Joan? She's not here."

He stared at me as if I were bodmin. "I'm sure she'll be along soon, Louisa. The wedding doesn't start for another fifteen minutes."

"But she's not _here_! And Tommy's not here." For some reason, it seemed important that they were both here now, right now.

"It's all right, Louisa." Roger was now giving me a strange look. "She's probably just running a little late. No doubt they'll be here any minute."

"I'm sure they're on their way," Martin added.

"What makes you so sure? Anything could have happened." I looked at Martin, worry now turning to panic. "Martin, we're talking about our son. He's missing." The flowers, the guests, my shoes, the wedding and everything else other than Joan and Tommy's whereabouts suddenly seemed unimportant.

"Louisa." Martin's hand was on my arm and he was giving me what I knew to be his clinical gaze. "Calm down. I'll just ring Joan—"

Right. I allowed myself a breath. He could call Joan and make sure everything was all right. But if she was in the car, she'd have to talk while driving . . .

Mrs. Tishell started playing another hymn as Martin pulled the mobile out of his pocket. He'd talk to Joan, tell her that we were waiting for her. Inside the church, the guests were chatting contentedly. The flowers shone. Martin's wedding band was securely in the pocket of my suit. The vicar was sober. Everything was going to be perfect.

Martin punched in the number for Joan's mobile. Something was messing up the hymn – it was a noise in the distance.

Martin frowned at the mobile. No one had answered.

I could now make out the competing sound. It was a siren. The familiar wail that one heard all the time as the ambulance or police car passed you on the road, secure in the knowledge that it was someone else in trouble.

The wailing persisted, getting closer and louder and more desperate. I turned toward the sound.

Now it sounded like . . .

Tommy! I opened my eyes. Across the room in the cot, Tommy was crying. I glanced at the clock – 3:43 in the morning. Oh god, I'd last fed him around eleven. He was hungry.

I pushed aside the sheets dragged myself out of bed. An hour to feed, burp and change the baby meant that I wouldn't get back to sleep until nearly five. I now routinely rose at 5:30 to get done everything I needed to do, which meant that I'd get no more sleep before heading off to school.

And, I realized with a sigh, there was no wedding. Tommy was safe and sound in my room. And, I was certain, Joan was asleep in her home. And Martin was undoubtedly in the bedroom above his surgery – also sleeping soundly while I awakened in the middle of the night to feed our son.

There was no "us," no family and no white picket fence. There was Tommy and me and, across the harbor, Martin. Which, I supposed, was better than Martin in London.

It had all been a dream, a cruel and lousy dream.

And yet, marrying Martin still filled my dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

A few hours later, my dream already starting to turn foggy, I walked toward Portwenn Primary. Only a few feet from the entrance, I turned around on my way into the school to see who was calling my name so loudly from across the front lot. I sighed and tried my best not to grimace at the sight of Mr. Rhodes jogging towards me. Rhodes was an accountant who lived on the outskirts of Portwenn and the father of Madeline, an eight-year old currently enrolled in Year 3.

Rhodes was about my age but, with a receding hairline that was already turning grey and a slight paunch, looked at least a decade older. This morning he was dressed formally in a suit that was a size too small. His polished shoes clattered against the stone walkway as he approached.

"Mr. Rhodes," I replied formally, stopping to let him catch up with me.

He seemed slightly out of breath from the short jog. "Miss Glasson, I want a word with you about Madeline's mathematics placement."

"Of course," I replied through gritted teeth. It was the same discussion I'd had last week with _Mrs_. Rhodes and the outcome of this conversation was unlikely to be any different. "Why don't you come to my office," I said, giving him a terse smile.

He followed me into the school, past the classrooms and down the hall to the tiny office of the head teacher. At least I had my own office; the other teachers had only their classrooms to use as workspace.

"Please have a seat," I said, once we were inside, walking around to the back of my desk.

"I'll stand," Rhodes said.

Brilliant. I took a seat, finding that my desk provided a measure of authority and distance, both of which I might need today. "So, how can I help you?"

"I'd like to know why you've placed Madeline in the basic level of mathematics. As my wife explained to you last week, she should be in the advanced level."

It was a common complaint among parents, especially those who'd gone to university. Every parent believed his or her child was the smartest, most talented, and most athletic in the class. None seemed to understand that, when any class was divided into two sections based on ability, half of the children would be in the less advanced group. As head teacher, it fell to me to explain to the parents of those children why their son or daughter wasn't quite as "advanced" as they liked to believe.

"I understand your concern," I replied. "However, as I told Mrs. Rhodes last week, I've discussed Madeline's situation with Mrs. Bordman, her homeroom teacher. We both agree that, based on her performance in maths last year, her placement this year is appropriate."

"Appropriate? I'm an accountant for goodness sakes, as was my wife for many years. Mathematics is in our genes. I think the problem is Mrs. Bordman. It's clear she and Madeline don't get along."

"Mrs. Bordman is one of our most experienced teachers," I replied, instinctively coming to my colleague's defense. "And I happen to know she thinks very highly of Madeline. We simply believe that your daughter will be more . . . successful in her current placement. Obviously, if the work is not challenging enough, we can always move her to a different level."

Sometimes I wanted to choke on the rubbish words we teachers were taught to say – "challenging," "successful," "different" – nothing to suggest that a child was less than perfect. It would be so much easier simply to tell Mr. Rhodes that little Madeline had her strengths but maths currently wasn't one of them.

Mr. Rhodes stepped closer until he was towering over my desk. "I want her put in the advanced level now."

It was my turn to stand and, when I did so, I nearly matched him in height. "Mr. Rhodes, as the head teacher of this school, it's my responsibility to do what is best for each of my pupils, including Madeline. In my opinion, she is currently placed in the appropriate mathematics level. I promise you that I will personally monitor her progress and, if a change is warranted, I will make it."

"So you won't change her level?"

"Not now, no."

Mr. Rhodes turned on his heel and marched to the door. Once there, he turned back to face me. "You haven't heard the last of this, Miss Glasson."

I was sure I hadn't.

At the school in London where I'd briefly worked last year, the head teacher position was entirely administrative. Here, in addition to my administrative responsibilities, I taught several classes a day. In fairness, I enjoyed teaching and doing so helped me know my students as well have a better understanding of what my teachers went through.

Today, I taught both history and arithmetic and, as soon as I'd finished, raced back to my office for a scheduled meeting with Mr. Sands, the lead governor of the school.

"I'm so glad you decided to stay on after the birth of your son," he said after we'd exchanged pleasantries. "The children and parents of this school think very highly of you."

Maybe not Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes, I thought to myself.

"And to come back so quickly," Mrs. Sands continued. "Speaking on behalf of all of the governors, we truly appreciate your dedication."

Given that Martin was currently not a school governor, that statement might well be true.

"It's good to be back," I replied as we sat down at the small conference table.

Were it not for Martin's financial support, any attempt to continue my work as the head teacher would have been doomed. Given the demands of my job, full-time daycare for Tommy was an absolute necessity and the cost of that was much more than I could afford on my salary. Even though Martin didn't fully approve of what I was doing, he'd at least make it possible.

Martin had moved back into his old house almost as soon as Dr. Owens had moved out. We'd briefly discussed living together . . . or even getting married. Just as when he'd proposed after I'd returned from London, I couldn't shake the sense that he'd made the offer out of a sense of duty or obligation rather than because it was something he truly wanted.

It was true that in the weeks that he'd stayed with me we'd gotten on decently, for us at least. However, I sensed that Martin was being careful – walking on eggshells almost – to be sure he didn't say or do something to annoy me. While I appreciated his efforts, I also knew that, if there was any chance of us being together for the long run, we'd ultimately have to be ourselves, warts and all.

There was still plenty of time for that. For now, I was content that Martin had decided to stay in Portwenn and that he was in my life and in Tommy's life. Given where we'd all been two months ago, it was a lot to be grateful for.

"I've reviewed the annual budget you submitted," Mr. Sands said, pulling a sheaf of papers from his satchel.

I forced my attention back to the spreadsheets set out before me and held my breath. Unlike Mr. Rhodes, accounting had never been my strongest suit and I'd worked hard to get this year's budget exactly right. Money was tight across the UK, and our school district would be no exception. There were some things we definitely needed, such as upgraded computers and equipment for our science room. And, things such as additional musical instruments, art supplies and some new AV equipment that I very much wanted but knew would be impossible for this year unless I could raise the funds privately.

"The other governors and I were very impressed with your numbers," Mr. Sands said. "The budget is comprehensive and carefully thought out in terms of where to spend extra funds and where cuts can be made."

"Thank you," I said, trying not to beam at the compliment.

"I know I probably shouldn't say this, but I honestly don't know where you ever found the time to put all this together. It's hard enough for anyone, but to do all this with a newborn baby . . ."

"I just had to make the time," I replied. The truth was that, had I not pressed Martin to take Tommy for an entire afternoon two weeks ago, I would never have managed to get the budget started, let alone finished.

Mr. Sands and I spent the next hour discussing a handful of line items – in the end, I held firm on some points and gave in on others. It was nearly five by the time we finished and it was all I could do to refrain from glancing at my watch every few minutes. Tanya, who took care of Tommy while I was at school, needed to leave by 5:30 and it was always a challenge for me to get home on time.

After I was finally able to show Mr. Sands out, I hurried back to my desk to collect the history quizzes that would need to be corrected tonight. There was a note from the custodial staff that one of the toilets in the girls' loo was broken, which would necessitate a call in the morning to have it repaired. I had a voicemail from the cook telling me that the milk truck hadn't come today and asking whether it would be okay to purchase milk from the local grocer to tide us over. A glance at my watch showed it was too late to deal with that issue now; another item for the morning. Which meant I'd need to arrive a bit earlier than usual tomorrow, I realized with a loud sigh.

I'd shoved the papers in my bag and turned off the light when my phone rang. Damn. A second ring. Don't answer it, I told myself. Let it ring; if it's important, they'll call back in the morning. The ringing continued, for a third time. Just walk out the door and home to Tommy.

On the fourth ring, I picked up the handset. "Louisa Glasson," I said into the mouthpiece, trying to hide my exasperation.

"Oh, _Miss_ Glasson." I couldn't help but notice the emphasis on my title. "It's Martha Tydings, Eddie's mother."

Right. Eleven-year-old, blond boy, somewhat small for his age. Decent student with no serious behavioral issues. "Yes, Mrs. Tydings, how can I help you?"

"I'd like to stop by for a minute and discuss my son's situation with you."

I couldn't think of anything unusual about Eddie Tydings. "His situation?" I asked noncommittally.

"He's being bullied at school and I want to know what you plan to do about it."

Bullied? This was news to me. I glanced again at my watch. It was now 5:40; I was already late to relieve Tanya.

"Mrs. Tydings, this is the first I've heard of this—"

"The first you've heard of it? Aren't you the head teacher? Everyone in his class, everyone in the school knows about it."

Obviously everyone in the school didn't know, and this wasn't a conversation I could have tonight. I needed to speak with Eddie's teachers to find out what was going on. And, more importantly, I needed to get home. This would make the third time this week I'd been late; if I kept this up, I'd find myself without childcare.

I could call Martin and ask him to take care of Tommy until I got home. But he might well still be in surgery or on a home visit. And even if he weren't, I'd told him many times that I could handle my job as head teacher and being a mother all by myself. It was time for me to prove it.

"Mrs. Tydings, it's late. Perhaps it would be best if I looked into your concerns in the morning and then we—"

"Obviously, you don't think this is important."

"Of course I do. It's just that I don't—"

"Bullying is a serious issue, Miss Glasson. As the head teacher, you need to be aware of it and take steps to ensure it isn't happening in your school."

"I do take it very seriously and I promise that I'll look into it first thing in the morning. Now, however, I need to—"

"Your job doesn't end when the school day ends. You can't investigate this properly if you don't have the details, which I'm prepared to provide to you. Do you have a pen to write this down?"

"Mrs. Tydings," I replied, trying to muster as much patience as I could. "I do want to have details of the alleged conduct. However, I have another . . . appointment this evening. I can give you a call in the morning."

"An appointment? At this hour? Having dinner with Doc Martin are you? Maybe you should be spending more time with your pupils and less time on dinner engagements with the GP."

This time I couldn't control my temper. "My plans are none of your business. I take your comments most seriously and will give you a call in the morning to ensure I have all of the specifics. Now, if there is nothing else . . ."

There was a grunt on the other end of the line. "No. Nothing. I shall expect to hear from you _first_ thing in the morning, Miss Glasson, on this matter of grave concern. Good night."

I set down the phone and rubbed my eyes. Three weeks into the school year and, like the fishermen who populated our village, I was already at sea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

**For those who want/need it, a medical glossary for this chapter can be found at the end. Going forward, if I think a chapter needs medical terms defined, they'll be at the end, so as not to become spoilers for the chapter. :)**

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><p>It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, I thought as I pushed the chicken into the oven with one hand while simultaneously holding my squirming son firmly in the other.<p>

I'd invited Martin to have dinner with me – and Tommy. It would mark the first time we'd eaten together since he'd moved out of my spare bedroom and back into his own cottage. I'd chosen a Saturday night, figuring that the weekend would give me plenty of time to prepare and clean up without the competing demands of school.

Truth be told, I was hoping for a bit more than dinner. Martin and I hadn't had a romantic night together for more than ten months . . . more or less since the night Tommy was conceived. I'd almost immediately gone to London and when I returned, it was all we could do to speak civilly to each other. And, for a time at least, Martin had seemed more interested in Edith Montgomery than me.

When he'd been so emotional at Tommy's birth, I thought everything would magically change. It hadn't. During the short time Martin had stayed with me while he worked in Truro and Owens was our GP, he'd mostly slept in my guest room. The few times he'd joined me in my bed, he'd acted almost like a chaste schoolboy. I tried telling myself that he didn't want to go too far until I'd completely healed from my delivery and had been given the go-ahead to resume sex. However, that didn't explain his complete lack of . . . passion.

I desperately wanted for him to hold me and touch me as he had nearly a year ago. I'd grown fat with the pregnancy and now, even though I'd already lost much of that weight, I needed to feel sexy again and, more importantly, have Martin think of me as sexy. I simply needed some affirmation that I was more than the mother of a small boy and hoped tonight might be the first step in that direction.

However, getting ready for tonight's dinner had been much more difficult and time-consuming than I'd expected. To start with, Tommy had had a restless night, forcing me to get up every two hours to feed, change, burp, or just hold him. So, by the time I got out of bed for the final time early Saturday morning, I'd slept only in bits and pieces.

For the menu, I'd stuck with the basics of green salad, chicken, vegetables, and bread pudding for dessert. Even so, taking care of Tommy slowed down my dinner preparation considerably and now, with Martin due any minute, I was nowhere near ready.

When the doorbell rang at precisely six o'clock, I was half-tempted to ignore it. I hadn't fixed the salad or dessert. Even worse, I'd yet to change into something decent, put on any makeup, or even run a brush through my hair. And, for some unknown reason, Tommy was once again crying. He'd been fed less than an hour ago, his nappie was dry, and I was at my wit's end trying to figure out the cause of his current distress.

The bell rang again. Martin would know I was home; ignoring the ring would undoubtedly lead him to do something reckless, like break a window.

I stared down in dismay at my stained T-shirt and sweat pants, ran a hand through my mussed hair and sighed before reaching for the door handle.

"Hello, Martin," I said, opening the door and greeting him with a forced smile.

"Louisa."

Of course, he was impeccably attired in his usual suit and tie. I think the only times I'd seen him dressed in anything else were the nights we'd made love – when he wasn't actually "dressed" in anything – and in my occasional dreams. As always, he was perfectly shaven and I thought I detected the faint hint of aftershave.

"Have I arrived too early?" he asked, taking in my attire and appearance.

I decided to make the best of it. "No, you're right on time. I'm just running a bit behind schedule."

"Hmm." He handed me a brown bag. I opened it and pulled out a bottle of . . . orange juice.

"Thank you," I said, staring at it.

"I'd have brought wine but you shouldn't drink alcohol while breastfeeding," he explained.

"Right." Martin was nothing if not practical.

Behind me, Tommy was still crying and, after the chaos that had marked my day, my nerves were on edge.

"Is something wrong with the baby?" Martin asked, eyebrows knitting in concern as he peered over my shoulder.

"He's all right, just a little fussy. He didn't sleep well last night."

"Maybe I should have a look at him. Excessive crying could be due to colic or croup or even RSV."

Why did Martin always have to turn everything into a medical issue? And how dare he insinuate that I didn't care pay attention to my son's health.

"Martin, babies do fuss, you know! If I thought he were ill, don't you think I would have called you?"

"Of course. But since I'm here—"

"Since you're here, you can hold him while I toss the salad. What Tommy needs is some attention from his father."

"Hmm," Martin said, but did move toward the cot while I hastened back into the kitchen.

I quickly washed the lettuce and dumped it into a bowl, slicing a cucumber and tomato atop. It wasn't the least bit elegant, but with some dressing—damn! I knew I'd forgotten something. I opened pantry and rifled through the contents, my search coming up short. I'd just have to make do and hope Martin didn't mind dry salad.

In the front room, Tommy continued to cry, though it seemed that the intensity and volume had decreased. With some luck, he was finally tiring himself out. A quick check of the chicken found that it was, thankfully, not burned, but slightly undercooked. Knowing how Martin didn't like to eat after six-thirty, I increased the oven temperature to speed things along.

When I returned to the front room, I found Martin holding Tommy, who was still squirming and whimpering.

"How long has he been crying like this?" he asked.

"As I said, he's been a bit fussy." I took Tommy from him and held him close to my chest. "He's all right. Aren't you, Tommy?" I asked, rocking him gently in my arms. "You just want your mommy and daddy to pay attention to you, don't you?" I sat down on the sofa, content to relax for the first time in hours.

Martin sat stiffly in his chair and only then did I realize I hadn't offered him anything to drink. "Would you like some water? There's bottled in the fridge."

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

We sat there for a moment across from each other, I holding Tommy and he watching us. Neither of us said a word. Why did things always have to be so awkward between us? Why couldn't we carry on normal conversations like everyone else?

At least Tommy had finally settled down. His cries had turned to whimpers and then his eyes closed and he started to fall asleep in my arms.

Well, one of us had to break the silence. "So, are things all back together in the surgery?" I asked. "Moved in and all?"

He seemed relieved that I'd been the one to start up the conversation. "Yes. I started seeing patients two days ago."

"That's good." In some ways, it was if nothing had changed. And yet, everything was different. We'd gone through so much in the past year and the biggest change was resting against my chest. "So how do you find it, being back I mean?"

"I was only gone, so to speak, for a few weeks. I'm in the same surgery seeing the same patients for the same mindless ailments. Not much has changed."

"You've changed. You decided to stay." As I spoke the words, I wondered if I'd said too much. Martin had made his decision but was he satisfied, let alone happy? I still didn't know.

"Yes, I have."

Martin was here largely because of me. And because of Tommy, of course. I couldn't shake the worry that, if he started to regret his decision, he'd somehow blame or resent us for keeping him here. Much as I wanted him to stay, I'd rather he be happy in London than miserable in Portwenn.

"Are you okay with that, Martin? Staying here, that is."

His eyes flashed. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Bugger. Now I'd stepped into it. "I don't know. Maybe because only a few weeks ago you wanted to leave."

Martin looked concerned. "Didn't you want me to stay?"

"Yes, I do. It's just that . . . I don't want you to stay because of me." I hugged Tommy more tightly. "Because of us."

"Of course I'm here because of you. Do you think I'm here because of the challenging medical cases or scintillating conversations with the local populace?"

"The local populace, as you call it, are my neighbors and friends and, if you stay here, yours as well."

Martin rolled his eyes at that one.

"Martin, I'm one of the local populace."

"You're . . . different."

"Why? Because I attended university in London? That doesn't make me better than anyone else."

"You're . . ."

"Yes, Martin?"

Rather than replying, he wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell?"

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><p>Medical Glossary:<p>

Colic: Crying that lasts longer than three hours a day and is not caused by a medical problem such as a hernia or infection.

Croup: Breathing difficulty marked by a "seal-like" barking cough.

RSV (Respiratory Synctial Virus): a communicable respiratory illness that causes infection of the lungs and breathing passages in infants.


	4. Chapter 4

I sniffed two odors at once. The chicken was burning and Tommy needed changing. Right away. And I couldn't handle both tasks at the same time.

"Can you check on the chicken in the oven?" I asked, "While I change the baby."

Tommy's nappie was a nauseating mess and it took some time to clean him up. Thus, it was more than a quarter hour later by the time I returned downstairs,. I'd also taken the opportunity to brush my hair and put on some lipstick. If I was to get dinner on the table before seven, there wasn't time to do more.

When I reached the foot of the steps, I stopped, stunned at what I saw.

Set out in front of me on the table was my dinner perfectly laid out – plates, silverware and glasses precisely arranged. Each plate contained ample portions of neatly carved chicken – Martin had obviously put his surgical talents to good use – vegetables and separate plates with salad. Water for him and orange juice for me filled the glasses. And, as I stepped closer, I noted that Martin had even managed to find enough remnants in my cupboards to make up a salad dressing.

For a minute, I was speechless. As infuriating as Martin could at times be, there were other moments, such as this, when the smallest gesture filled my heart with warmth.

"Martin," I said, when I found my voice, "I was supposed to fix dinner for you." I felt a bit guilty that Martin had been forced to finish preparing the meal when he was supposed to be my guest.

"You did fix it," he said with a slight smile. "I simply served it. Is it all right?"

I returned the smile "It's beautiful. Thank you."

I walked to the table and allowed Martin to pull out my chair. He took a seat opposite from me. We ate, as we ate most of our meals, in virtual silence and I occasionally wondered if Martin was always so quiet because he was used to eating alone.

Once again, it would be up to me to initiate conversation. "Martin, have you seen Eddie Tydings as a patient recently?"

He glanced up. "Who?"

Martin was never good with names. "Eleven-year-old boy. Blond, thin, quiet - somewhat obnoxious mother," I clarified."

He cut a piece of the chicken. "Don't think so. Why?"

"His mother's complained that he's being bullied at school. Just wonderin' if she'd come to you about it."

"No, I'm sure I would have remembered if she had."

Which was true. While Martin couldn't remember actual names to save his life, he had an almost encyclopedic memory of the people and conditions he'd treated.

We returned to our silence. Tonight, he kept staring at me between bites of dinner – unfortunately, not in a way that suggested he found me attractive but rather with an almost clinical gaze. It was disconcerting to say the least. I looked up to meet his eyes then looked away. The whole episode reminded me of the day I'd first met Martin on the airplane when he'd diagnosed me with glaucoma.

Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. "Martin, is something wrong?"

He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"

"You keep staring at me. I know I don't look my best." I glanced down at my shirt, stained with spittle. "Would it help if I changed and put on some makeup?"

Martin frowned. "What? Uh, no. I mean . . . you look fine. Well, actually, I couldn't help but notice that you seem quite tired."

I sighed. "Of course I'm tired. I was up with the baby most of the night. I haven't had a full eight hours sleep since . . . well, for a long time." Now that I thought back on it, the last time I'd slept soundly through the night was probably around my seventh month of pregnancy.

"And you're putting in long days at school as well."

I blew out a long breath. Not this discussion again. "Yes, Martin," I replied, trying to keep my voice even.

Martin set down his fork and knife. "Louisa, you're pushing yourself too hard."

"I'm not doing anything other working mothers do."

"You're taking care of an infant on your own and running a school. I'd say that's more than most mothers do."

I was getting indignant. We'd been over this more than a few times during the past weeks – actually since I'd come back to Portwenn – and arguing about it one more night wasn't going to change anything.

"It's not my fault I'm on my own," I said, my voice turning a bit shrill.

"Then whose fault is it?" Martin's own voice was rising. "If you recall, I did ask you to marry me – more than once, I might add. You're the one who wanted to do it all by yourself."

"I don't _want_ to do it on my own. But I'm perfectly capable of doing so."

"And running yourself into the ground while you're at it!"

"I'm not running myself into the ground," I replied angrily, even as I recognized what Martin said was largely true. I _was_ trying to do two full-time jobs and, as a result, each day found myself more and more exhausted. Maintaining this pace was increasingly difficult and I had no idea when or how my situation would improve.

"I don't understand why you didn't take more time off before going back to work," Martin added. "You're entitled to a full year."

It was true that the law allowed me up to 52 weeks of unpaid maternity leave. Reality was something else entirely. I couldn't simply walk away from my job for an entire year. "You know that I couldn't afford to take off that much time."

"I'd provide for you."

I sighed. "I don't mean financially. They just appointed me head teacher. How would it look if I immediately took off for months on end?"

"It would look like you'd come to your senses."

"I swear, Martin, you're a chauvinist of the first order."

"I am not!"

For a moment, we simply glared at each other, not unlike my schoolchildren on the playground. This time, I wasn't going to back down. I'd committed to being head teacher while raising Tommy and I wasn't prepared to admit that I'd bitten off more than I could chew, at least not yet. And I certainly wasn't going to give Martin the satisfaction of being right.

"Louisa, I'm concerned about you. About your health. You don't look well. Have you had your post-partum checkup?"

"Not yet," I admitted.

I'd decided to take Martin's recommendation and go with Robert Samuels in Wadebrige as my GP. He was the doctor Martin had chosen when he'd been ill a few years back and the one he still sought out on the rare occasions he needed medical care. I liked Samuels well enough, and his surgery was closer to Portwenn than Truro. Not to mention that even the thought of the Truro hospital brought back unpleasant memories of Edith Montgomery, a woman and doctor I'd just as soon forget.

"It's a long drive," I added, "and it's hard to get away from school during the day—"

"I'll call him; I'm sure he can work you in after hours if necessary."

"I can take care of my own medical appointments."

"Well, you're not doing a very good job of it, are you?"

Martin's criticism invariably got my dander up, and tonight was no exception. My plans for a romantic dinner had suddenly turned into a night of bickering about nonsense. As if on cue, upstairs Tommy started fussing yet again. A glance at my watch showed me that it had been nearly three hours since I'd last fed him.

Martin put down his napkin on the table. "I should go." He stood up from the table.

_No, please don't_, I silently begged. I didn't want the night to end like this and I definitely didn't want to spend yet another night by myself. I should apologize, ask him to stay, at least for a while longer, to hold me while I fed Tommy then lead me upstairs and slowly undress me . . .

"Right," is what I did say. I too stood. "You should probably go." And leave me here alone.

"Good night, Louisa. Thank you for dinner."

"Good night, Martin."

I couldn't bring myself to watch as he let himself out.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Tydings, but I really must go." I'd been on the phone with Eddie Tydings' mother for the past half hour going round and round on the subject of whether her child was being bullied at school.

After her initial complaint, I'd spoken at length to the boy's homeroom teacher as well the other teachers who supervised him at recess or at lunch. While all agreed that Eddie was somewhat timid and introverted and easily influenced by his classmates, none had seen any evidence that the child was being subjected to any abuse or even inappropriate comments.

I'd also talked with Eddie himself. The boy made some vague references to classmates 'picking on' him, but to my experienced ears, it sounded like nothing more than the usual bantering and bickering among schoolboys.

Nonetheless, as I'd told Mrs. Tydings more than once, I took her allegations seriously and had asked all my teachers to keep an extra close watch on Eddie. To date, they'd seen nothing untoward.

None of this seemed to make any impression on his mother, who continued to insist that her child was the victim of verbal and physical abuse at the hands of his classmates. My repeated efforts to convince her otherwise had fallen on deaf ears.

"Mrs. Tydings," I said, forcing myself to remain calm, "I understand your concerns and we have been monitoring the situation very carefully—"

"Monitoring carefully? What kind of rubbish is that?"

"I've asked Eddie to let one of the teachers know immediately if he believes someone has acted inappropriately. He hasn't complained once."

"He's too frightened to do so, Miss Glasson."

I forced myself to remain calm and keep my voice even. "Certainly he's not frightened of his teachers, Mrs. Tydings. We can only help him if he lets us."

"It's your job to keep watch on the children."

"Mrs. Tydings, as I've told you, we will continue to be vigilant. You can help by asking Eddie to inform us of any issues." I glanced at my watch. Damn, I'd been at this for another five useless minutes and, if I didn't leave in the _next_ five, I'd be late.

"Unfortunately," I continued, "I'm late for another appointment. I'll be happy," I said through gritted teeth, "to discuss this further in the morning."

"An appointment? Something to do with your baby, I'm sure." The inference was obvious – my child was more important than hers.

"Actually, no," I said, and immediately shut my mouth. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't continue to explain every time I couldn't come in early or stay after hours. It wasn't anyone's bloody business what I did in my off time. "I'm sorry, but I need to go now. Good day, Mrs. Tydings," I added and hung up the phone before she could complain yet again.

Many of the mums of my students didn't work outside the home. Thus, they had trouble understanding that not everything could be left for Saturdays, that many of the errands could only be done during the workday – and schoolday, which was hard when you were at work or in school all day. Things like the dry cleaner, the grocer, the bank, the hair salon, the post office, or the doctor for Tommy and for me.

I'd finally gotten around to making an appointment for my medical check. Martin was right as he usually was about things medical – I needed to ensure I was fully recovered from my delivery. I'd been good about getting Tommy to the doctor but had neglected my own health.

When I'd explained my scheduling predicament over the phone, Samuels had agreed to see me after school and Joan had agreed to stay with Tommy until I got home.

Despite breaking the speed limit a few times en route, I still arrived ten minutes late for my appointment and found myself the only person in the surgery other than the talkative receptionist Mrs. Briggs. She and Samuels had obviously stayed late to see me, for which I was suddenly quite grateful.

"Louisa," he greeted me warmly at the door to the consulting room, thankfully sparing me what would undoubtedly have been a lengthy conversation with Mrs. Briggs. In his loose-fitting slacks, collared shirt, corduroy jacket and round spectacles, Samuels still looked more the university professor than Cornish GP.

"Good to see you again," he said. "Come through."

"I'm sorry, I'm late. There was a jam on the road—"

"It seems there's always a jam on that road," he said. "Not to worry. I just finished up with my last patient a few minutes ago."

He invited me to take a seat and closed the door behind me. "I read your notes from Truro. Other than the premature delivery, you seem to have had an uncomplicated pregnancy and birth." He raised his eyebrows slightly and his eyes twinkled. "That is, for someone who gave birth in a pub."

I blushed slightly. "It wasn't exactly what I'd planned."

"How is the baby?"

"Tommy's wonderful. His had his first checkup was with Dr. Owens a few weeks ago and everything was fine."

"Well, I look forward to having him as a patient." Dr. Samuels looked down again. "Martin sent along his notes as well. How is he, by the way? I hear he decided to stay in Portwenn and not take the surgery post in London."

I wasn't how much Samuels knew about the whole situation and decided this wasn't the time to bring it up. "Yes, he has," was all I could muster.

"Must admit I was happy to hear it. Never knew him as a surgeon of course, but he's a fine GP – Portwenn's lucky to have him." He glanced down at my notes. "I see you had a bout of mastitis a few weeks ago which Martin indicates responded well to the antibiotics."

I remembered the gentleness with which Martin had examined me that night and then applied compresses to soothe my pain, sitting with me until I fell asleep. It felt odd and somewhat unsettling to have those tender moments reduced to impersonal GP notes.

"Anything else you want to tell me about?" Samuels continued. "Any problems since your delivery?"

"Only that I've been quite tired, although I suppose that's normal for mums of newborns."

He smiled. "It is, and I know you're working full-time, which I'm sure makes it harder. My wife was working when she had our first child and, even with me to help out, she often felt like she was burning the candle at both ends."

"I do have someone caring for Tommy while I'm at school. And Martin helps out when he can," I added out of some irrational need to defend him.

"That's good. And, it shouldn't be much longer before the baby mostly sleeps through the night, which will help a bit." He again checked the notes. "There a note of anemia last year, although your counts were normal during pregnancy. Even so, I'll draw some blood to make sure it hasn't come back.

"All right then." He stood up from the desk and nodded toward the examination room. "Go ahead and get undressed. There's a gown on the table. I'll collect Mrs. Briggs and we'll be with you in a minute."

Samuels was efficient and Mrs. Briggs more competent and less chatty than I'd expected. As a result, less than ten minutes and a thorough going over later, I was dressed and again seated in front of Samuels' desk. I realized that, as difficult as it had probably been for Martin to send me to Samuels, it was undoubtedly the right thing to do. Having Martin perform my exam would have been . . . awkward to say the least.

"Everything looks good," Samuels said. "We should have the results of your blood tests back in a day or so, but I doubt if anything's amiss. I suspect your fatigue is due to just that – exhaustion. You may have gone back to work a bit soon."

Not him too. Martin constantly nagging me was more than enough.

I must have frowned because Samuels smiled and held up a hand. "I'm not judging you, Louisa, merely stating a medical fact. Childbirth is a natural process but it also puts a huge strain on a woman's body, physically and emotionally. There's a reason the law allows you time off."

"I didn't realize how tiring taking care of a baby would be."

"Few mums . . . or dads do," he said. "Unfortunately, I don't have a magic solution for you other than to get all of the rest you can. If you let yourself get too rundown, you'll be more susceptible to every little virus that makes its way through Portwenn Primary and then you'll be no good to anyone."

"I'll try," I said, not at all sure how I was going to fulfill that promise.

He leaned forward in his chair. "I know you need to get home but there are two more things before you go. First, it's okay for you to resume sexual intercourse whenever you're ready. I take it you aren't keen to get pregnant again right away."

I found myself blushing again. "No." It was the last thing I needed now although, given Martin's reluctance to touch me, there didn't seem to be much chance of that happening.

"Then we should talk about birth control options," he said.

After he'd described my alternatives, I decided to start with the pill – at least until I found the right moment to get Martin's advice, if I could actually bring myself to discuss the subject with him.

"You'll need to use another form of contraception until you've been on the pill for a full cycle," Samuels cautioned.

"I understand."

"One last thing," he said, as he handed me the prescription form, "What, if anything, are you comfortable with my telling Martin if he asks about you – medically, that is?"

"He won't ask," I replied with certainty, "unless it's a emergency."

Martin was a stickler for patient confidentiality to the point of often driving me mad. I knew that he wouldn't bend those rules and question Samuels about my medical condition – much as he might want to. "And if it's an emergency," I added, "tell him whatever he needs to know."

A few minutes later, I walked out of the surgery, prescription for oral contraceptives in hand, along with the hope that I would soon have cause to use them.


	6. Chapter 6

Dorothy Adams, our fifth year teacher, rushed into my office just after noon. "There's been an accident on the playground."

Those words always struck terror in the pit of my stomach even though, over the years, I'd learned most playground injuries weren't serious. Children were rambunctious and thus preordained to bang themselves up with a certain regularity that all of the monitoring and shouted warnings by parents and teachers would never prevent.

Nonetheless, the children at _my_ school were _my_ responsibility and any injury to a student always left me wondering if there was something I could have done to prevent it. It was only in the few minutes between the call of alarm and the sorting it all out by Martin that I always panicked inwardly while doing my best to project an image of complete calm.

"You need to call the doctor," Dorothy added.

Dorothy wasn't one to panic, which meant this was at least potentially serious. God help me.

"Who's hurt?" I asked.

"Eddie Tydings."

Damn. Of all the children in the school, why did it have to be him?

"David's bringing him inside now."

David Collins was our school's sole male teacher. "Should we move him?" I asked, recalling the numerous times Martin had berated us for transporting an injured child without his permission or supervision.

"It looks to be just his arm and it's starting to rain."

Just his arm – well, that was somewhat of a relief. And Dorothy was right that it didn't make sense to let the boy get wet.

"What happened to him?" I needed to know to satisfy my own worries and also so that I could relay the information to Martin.

"Eddie and Harry Summers ran into each other playing football. Seems Eddie got the worst of it."

"All right. Get the other children back to their classrooms and have David take Eddie to the infirmary. I'll call Dr. Ellingham and meet you there."

Minutes later, I found Eddie sitting on the exam couch, pants grimy from where he'd obviously taken a tumble on the dirt and grass. His left hand was holding his right, which hung limply from wrist. Blood oozed from a cut along his chin and mixed with the tears streaming down his face.

I grabbed a gauze pad and pressed it against the cut. "It's all right, Eddie," I said, rubbing his shoulder. "The doctor's on his way. He'll have you fixed up in no time."

"It hurts bad, Miss Glasson," he wailed.

"I know it does." And I didn't know what to do about it. When I'd called, Martin had said to do nothing other than to keep the boy calm until he arrived and promised to be here within ten minutes.

In the years he'd been our GP, Martin had always responded immediately to a call from the school. There were times, I knew, when he was annoyed at being summoned for something that, in his view, was less than a true emergency. But he also wanted to be the one to decide what was serious and what wasn't. And, where my students were concerned, I'd rather call him unnecessarily and endure a bit of cheek than fail to call him the one time I should.

A check of my watch revealed that less than five minutes had passed since I'd spoken to Martin; with a child crying and in pain, it only felt like ten times that long.

"Did you call his mother?" I asked Dorothy.

"Yes. She's coming straight over."

Great. We had to do it, of course, but I wasn't looking forward to dealing with Mrs. Tydings. Based on our prior conversations, I had no doubt she'd find some way to blame the school – and me – for her son's injury.

"Doc's here," someone called from down the hall and, to my relief, a few seconds later, Martin strode into the room, suit spotted with rain, and eyes immediately taking in the situation with his infamous clinical gaze. He took charge of the Portwenn Primary infirmary with the same authority he'd no doubt used as a surgeon in the operating theater, and I had to admit that his cool, dominating, imperious manner could be quite comforting at moments like this.

"Miss Glasson," he said in the formal tone I insisted he use in front of my pupils.

I nodded at him, let go of the gauze I was holding and stepped aside to let him take over.

"What happened?" he asked Eddie, setting down his black case and stepping to the exam couch.

"Harry and me both went for the ball at the same time," Eddie replied, sniffing back tears and now trying to look brave. "We smashed each other hard."

Martin took the boy's head in his large surgeon's hands. "Did he pass out or lose consciousness?" he asked me, not taking his eyes away from his patient.

From behind me, Dorothy answered. "I don't think so."

"Hmm." Martin reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a penlight. "Look straight ahead," he ordered, holding Eddie's chin and checking the boy's pupils. "Follow my finger." Apparently satisfied, Martin continued his questioning. "Did you fall?"

"Yeah. Landed on my hand." He held it up. "It really hurts."

"Let me see," he said, taking Eddie's arm and running sensitive fingers along the boy's forearm.

"Ow!"

"Hold still," he said, tightening his grip. "I need to check for fracture."

I bit my tongue at Martin's lack of bedside manner. He'd come immediately when I'd called and, now here, was expertly taking care of Eddie's injuries; it was about the most I could ask for. The boy's chin was bleeding again and I moved closer with fresh gauze.

"Yep," Martin said after a moment. "Colles fracture." He turned to me. "Have you called the parents?"

"Of course we have – his mother. What's a Colles fracture?" I asked, with a sinking feeling. Any fracture couldn't be a good thing.

"Fracture of the distal radius," he explained. When I still looked confused, he added, "broken wrist."

"Oh." Damn. I rubbed a hand along my temple, not even wanting to think of telling Mrs. Tydings that her son had a broken bone.

"Will I get to wear a cast?" Eddie asked, eyes widening.

"Yes," Martin answered. "I'll put a splint on it until your mother can get you to hospital. You'll get a cast there." He reached over to where I was still holding the gauze, his hand brushing lightly against mine. "Let me see that."

Lifting the gauze, he grimaced at the sight of the blood underneath and quickly turned away, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath.

I couldn't help but ache for Martin, so proud as a doctor and yet humbled to the point of physical illness every time he saw blood which, given his job, probably happened every day. It would be as if I needed to vomit every time I saw a pencil. I thought about how hard he'd tried to overcome his blood phobia and how painful it must be knowing that he'd failed. Martin could do almost anything medical – except this. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't make him feel worse about his situation, so I kept my mouth shut.

With a decided effort, Martin again checked the wound. "He'll need a few sutures," he announced. "I'll dress it and they can sew it up at the hospital. Do you hurt anywhere else?" he asked Eddie, running his hands along the boy's torso. "Other than your arm and your chin?"

The boy shook his head. "Nope."

I followed Martin as he stepped over to his bag and started rummaging through it, pulling out various supplies.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" I asked nervously.

Martin glanced back over to Eddie. "I expect so. Fracture looks uncomplicated so he shouldn't need more than a cast for four to six weeks. The chin wound is under the jawline; with proper suturing there won't be a visible scar."

I sighed with relief. "Thank goodness."

"It was an accident, Louisa. These things happen."

I knew that, of course. However, even if it was an accident, it had happened at my school, on my watch, to one of my students. And left me having to explain it all to Mrs. Tydings. I tried not to hover over Martin who spent the next few minutes cleaning and bandaging the cut and then carefully placing Eddie's arm in a splint.

"I thought I was getting a cast," Eddie complained, the fascination with Martin's activity apparently overtaking the pain he'd felt earlier.

"You will – at the hospital."

"Cool. I can get everyone to sign it. Do you think I can get one in blue?"

Martin gave a disgusted snort.

"I'm sure they have an assortment of colors," I replied, somewhat relieved. If Eddie was focusing on the color of his cast, he wasn't in too much pain.

Martin prepared a sling and started to tie it over the boy's shoulder.

"Ouch!" Eddie cried out.

Martin and I exchanged glances. He'd barely touched the child. Without saying a word, Martin unbuttoned Eddie's shirt and peeled it over his shoulders. We both stared at a handful of bruises that ran along his shoulder. Martin fingered them gently.

"Are those from today as well?" I asked.

"No, older. At least a week I'd say." Martin looked at Eddie. "How'd you get these?"

"Dunno."

"Really?" An eyebrow went up.

"Eddie, what happened to you?" Maybe this was what his mother had meant by bullying. "Did someone at school do this to you?"

"I was playing footy, just like today. I get hit sometimes."

Before Martin or I could respond, Mrs. Tydings rushed into the room, stopping short at the sight of her son with a large bandage on his chin and his arm in a bulky splint. It was the first time I'd seen her in person and I tried to reconcile what I saw – a stocky blonde with a face already lined with a lifetime of wrinkles – with the voice I'd heard so frequently of late on the phone.

"My God, what happened to my son?"


	7. Chapter 7

"It's all right," Martin reassured Mrs. Tydings in his usual calm, detached voice. "Nothing too serious. Broken wrist and a cut on his chin."

"Doc says I'll get a cast," Eddie said, smiling broadly.

"A broken wrist!" Mrs. Tydings turned on me. "It's your fault. I told you that he was being bullied. If you'd listened to me and watched him more carefully, this wouldn't have happened."

The fact that I'd expected to take the blame for her son's accident didn't make me feel any better about doing it.

Dorothy had again slipped into the room and now spoke up. "Mrs. Tydings, I was on the playground supervising the children when this happened. He and another boy were running for the ball at the same time and ran into each other, that's all. No one was bullying anyone."

"And you know that Harry didn't run into him on purpose, do you? That boy's always up to no good. And now my Eddie has a broken arm and probably will be scarred for life."

"Mrs. Tydings." Martin stepped forward until he was towering over her. "Your son has a Colles fracture, a common injury when someone puts out his hand to break a fall. The fracture is clean and should heal nicely in six weeks and the cut in much less time. In my opinion, your son's injuries are consistent with a routine playground accident."

"Easy for you to say given your . . . relationship with Miss Glasson here." She huffed loudly.

"My relationship with Miss Glasson has nothing to do with my medical opinion or the circumstances of your son's injuries."

There were times when I could literally hug Martin, and this was definitely one of them.

"Well all I know is that these children need better supervision and this school needs better management." Mrs. Tydings looked pointedly at Martin. "Are you finished?"

"Yes, although you'll need to take him to hospital."

"Didn't you call an ambulance?"

"There's no need for an ambulance. His condition is stable. You can drive him to hospital yourself. I'll phone ahead and let them know to expect you."

I could see Martin was only barely managing to control his temper.

"You needn't bother."

"Then I won't."

With several more poignant sighs, Mrs. Tydings grabbed her son and almost pulled him out of the room. Part of me sighed with relief. The other part tensed, knowing that this certainly wouldn't be the last I heard of the incident or Mrs. Tydings.

The minute they'd left, I turned to Martin. "Thank you. For supporting me, that is."

"She's an idiot. You did nothing wrong." Before I could reply, he frowned and asked, "Where's the other boy?"

I looked at him in surprise. "What other boy?" 

"The one who collided with Teddy."

"Eddie," I corrected automatically, smiling inwardly at Martin's inability to remember the names of his patients. Some would say he cared only about their illnesses, and not about them as people. I knew differently.

"You mean Harry Summers?" I asked. Why was Martin asking about him? "He said he was fine."

"I'd like to see him."

I frowned more deeply. "But he said he wasn't hurt."

"I'd still like to examine him."

Sometimes Martin flummoxed me. Come to think of it, he did that a lot. Not five minutes earlier, he'd defended me in front of Mrs. Tydings, assuring her the injury to Eddie wasn't my fault. Now, it was as if he was accusing me of not being vigilant about Harry's condition – making me feel like a naughty schoolgirl. Then I thought about Peter Cronk, who'd also seemed fine until we'd discovered he had a ruptured spleen. Martin probably wanted to be sure he didn't miss anything.

"All right." I sent Dorothy to find Harry then watched as Martin repacked his bag. Best to change the subject of the conversation. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

That almost earned me a smile. "You're welcome," he said.

"I went to see Samuels last week. He said I'm fine." Now why had I offered that?

"Ah. Good." I could tell he was pleased, both that I'd done what he'd asked and that I wasn't ill.

I was saved from further conversation by the return of Dorothy, an agitated Harry in tow. The boy was arguing vehemently. "I don't need to see the doc. There's nothing wrong with me!"

"He's limping," Martin said sharply, pointing to the boy's leg and it didn't take a medical degree to see he was right. Bloody hell. He'd also been hurt in the playground accident. None of the teachers had caught it and yet Martin, who hadn't seen the boy until this minute had figured it out.

"Take off your shirt and trousers and sit on the couch," Martin ordered.

"Why?" Harry asked with a sullen expression.

I intervened. "Because Dr. Ellingham told you to. And because I'm telling you as well."

The boy gave both of us an angry glare as he started to pull off his top. Even I could see that the effort caused him considerable pain and I flinched as Martin gave me another telling look.

"Miss Glasson," he said formally. "I'm can manage here. Why don't you return to your other pupils."

It was as dismissive as he would be in front of a student and was his way of telling me I'd screwed up, big-time. I hadn't realized that both children could easily been injured and that a child's protestations of good health were best ignored. Given my years as a teacher, I should have known better.

I couldn't meet his eyes as I slinked out of the room. And, once outside the infirmary, there was no way I could return to my "other pupils" without being certain of Harry's condition. I stood nervously in the hallway, scolding myself for not having paid closer attention. What was I thinking not checking on the second child? I would have been all over a junior teacher who'd made that mistake, and now could only hope that my stupidity hadn't caused any serious or permanent damage to Harry.

It was a full five anxiety-filled minutes later that the door opened. Martin didn't seem entirely surprised to see me standing in the hallway.

"How is he?" I asked anxiously.

"Cracked rib and a cut on his leg."

I held my breath. "Serious?"

"He won't need to go to hospital, if that's what you're asking."

There were times I could hug him and times I could strangle him. This was a strangling moment. "I'm asking, Martin, if one of the children I'm responsible for is seriously injured."

"He'll be all right."

I leaned against the wall, the adrenaline rush gone and fatigue setting in with a vengeance. "Thank goodness. I don't know what I'd have done if one of them had been badly hurt."

"They're not." He cupped his hand on my shoulder. "Louisa, the boys will be back in school tomorrow and probably running into each other yet again."

Martin was actually trying to make me feel better, for which I was suddenly grateful, although his mood swings were leaving me dizzy. Before I could thank him or tell him how much those few words had meant to me, he dropped his hand.

"I'll take him back to the surgery and stitch up his leg."

"You?" I asked automatically, thinking about his blood thing. Suturing a bloody wound couldn't be something Martin was looking forward to.

He gave me a disapproving look. "Louisa, I was a vascular surgeon. I'm more than capable of putting in a simple line of sutures."

"That's not what I meant," I offered, but could see my comment had stung in a way I'd never intended.

"Right," he said turning back to the infirmary, and I knew the damage was done.


	8. Chapter 8

For once, I'd managed to get away from school a few minutes _before_ five o'clock, which allowed me to do a mite of shopping on a day other than Saturday. After four long days in school and a similar number filled with wind and rain, I craved a walk in the sunshine, time alone with Tommy outside of my cottage, and some fresh fish and vegetables for dinner.

An hour later, the evening's shopping was nearly at an end. Four plastic bags filled with groceries hung from Tommy's buggy. I'd felt rather proud that I'd managed to run all of my errands while he'd slept contentedly in his pram. Now all I needed to do was make it home before he awakened.

Rounding the corner near Mrs. Tishell's pharmacy, I considered whether there was anything I might need in her shop. I could probably use some Vaseline and maybe another bottle of mouthwash—

Lost in my mental shopping list, I failed to notice elderly Mrs. Wiggs coming out of the flower store, walking stick in hand, until I nearly crashed into her with the pram. I swerved at the last second, tipping the buggy dangerously onto its side wheels and causing my shopping bags to tumble to the ground.

The jostling awakened Tommy, who started making small noises. As I checked him, I realized with dismay that my purchases were spread across the street. Apples and onions rolled unencumbered down the cobblestones and, beneath me, the milk container had split open, spewing the contents into a huge puddle. It was a fine mess that I'd now have to clean up. I took a deep breath and sighed. I really didn't want to do it. For some reason, the thought of scurrying about picking up assorted fruits and vegetables, most of which were now useless—

"Oh, Louisa," Mrs. Wiggs said, coming over to me. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. Is the baby all right?"

"He's fine," I reassured her. "It was my fault."

"No, no. Mr. Wiggs is always telling me to be more careful." She pointed her cane toward the mess. "Can I help you?"

"No, it's all right. I'll take care of it." I tried to sound more convincing than I felt. After all, I certainly couldn't ask Mrs. Wiggs to clean up after me.

"Are you sure, dear?"

I forced a smile. "Yes, I can manage. You go on home."

With an apologetic look, she went on her way. I wanted to cry. A simple night of errands and look what had happened. I picked up the nearest plastic sack, now containing a lone red pepper, and started to retrieve the spilled items. The milk was a lost cause as was a broken bottle of salad dressing. The apples looked salvageable, if I ate them before they bruised.

As I tossed a few items into the bag, I heard a loud cry from behind me. It was Tommy, now fully awake and clearly unhappy about something. Now what? I sunk down onto the nearest stoop, my head in my hands. Where to start? The groceries? Tommy? It all suddenly seemed so overwhelming.

For just a moment I recalled those carefree days where, after school, I'd ride my bike into town, do a little shopping, chat with my friends. Now, errands were a chore – something to get through as quickly as possible before Tommy started to fuss.

The crying was getting louder. I rubbed my temples and eyes. I knew what I needed to do and was powerless to move. Instead, I sat there as Tommy cried in his pram and tears dribbled down my cheeks.

A sharp clatter on the cobblestones indicated someone was approaching and, a moment later, I saw with despair the shiny dress shoes that could only belong to Martin Ellingham stop next to me. Damn. He was the last person I wanted seeing me helpless and in tears. I'd no doubt he'd have a pointed comment on my situation. What would he say? Warn me about being careful with our son? Tell me I shouldn't try to shop with the baby? Fuss about the mess I'd made all over the street? Of all people in Portwenn, why did he have to be the one walk by?

He set his black case on the ground next to me. "Louisa." His voice was surprisingly soft and, a second later, his hand cupped under my chin and lifted it until my eyes had no choice but to face his.

"Louisa, what's wrong?" His eyes bored into mine. "What happened? Are you hurt? Why are you crying?"

"It's all right," I sniveled.

He glanced into the buggy where Tommy was still crying. "Is the baby all right?"

"Yes, he's just . . . oh, I don't know!" I wailed, wishing the baby would stop crying and Martin would stop with the questions. Or, better yet, just go away.

He bent over the buggy and, a moment later stood up. "He needs changing."

I sighed. The remnants of my packages were still strewn across the street, Tommy was wet, and there was obviously no changing table in sight.

"What happened?" he asked again.

I blinked back the tears. "I was walking and thinking about what to buy at Mrs. Tishell's and then Mrs. Wiggs stepped out and I didn't see her and the pram almost fell over and—"

"All right. You stay there. I'll get this cleaned up and then take you home. The baby can last for a few more minutes."

Through tear-stained eyes, I watched Martin go into the pharmacy and return a few minutes later with several empty bags. He quickly scooped up the salvageable items and tossed the rest into the nearest bin, doing in less than five minutes what would have taken me twice that long.

Finished, he pulled me to my feet. "Let's go before Tommy gets us arrested for disturbing the peace."

We walked the short distance back to my home in relative silence, other than Tommy's cries. As we made our way up the hill, I couldn't help but think that we looked rather like a family even though we were far from it.

Once we'd reached my cottage, Martin scooped up Tommy and made straight for the changing table, pulling out various supplies. During the time he'd stayed with us, Martin had become quite proficient at changing the baby's nappie even though I knew it wasn't his favorite parental task. I also didn't understand why he was suddenly being so solicitous but, at the moment, I was willing to accept his help.

"Louisa, go upstairs and get dressed for bed. I'll bring you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry," I pouted. "And I need to get Tommy ready for bed."

"I'll take care of Tommy," Martin said. "You go upstairs," he added in the imposing voice of Dr. Ellingham.

The crisp red sheets and warm coverlet of my bed welcomed me like an engraved invitation. I changed into my pajamas and crawled under the covers. Even though it was still early evening, I was exhausted. After the day's events, falling asleep would be easy. However, it was hard to look forward to closing my eyes knowing that my rest would be short-lived and that Tommy would awaken me in only a few hours.

Fifteen minutes later, I heard the heavy tread of Martin's footsteps on the stairs. He entered my room, still dressed in his suit, and carrying a tray with tea and a scone, which he set in front of me.

"Here you go," he said.

"Where's Tommy?"

"Sleeping in his cot."

"He'll be hungry soon."

"Probably." He nodded at the tray. "In the meantime, drink some tea."

Reluctantly, I took a sip. It was surprisingly good – and soothing. "Oh, Martin, I've made a mess of everything."

He sat down on the bed next to me. "You've done no such thing."

"Yes, I have. I nearly ran into Mrs. Wiggs and Tommy almost fell out of his buggy and my groceries were ruined—"

"Shush. Mrs. Wiggs is fine. Tommy is fine. And," he smiled, "as for the groceries, most of them are fine and as for the rest, we can buy more. Now drink up."

I took another sip of tea and nibbled on the scone.

"Better?" Martin said after a moment.

It was, actually. Better than the food and drink was the fact that Martin was serving me – and doing it without complaint or criticism. That was a start.

"Martin, you can take off your jacket and stay a while," I said, reaching out a hand and touching his arm. All I needed was for him to show some interest in me other than as an object of pity.

He smiled. "Yes, I can," he replied. "But only if you eat and drink a bit more. It's important to keep up your strength."

I drank some more tea and took another bite of the scone watching as Martin removed his jacket and then loosened his tie. Even though he remained almost fully dressed, his movements were oddly erotic, at least to me. I wanted to finish it off – to unbutton his shirt, and his trousers. I wanted . . .

"Martin, do you still see me as a woman?"

He shook his head, as if momentarily startled. "Of course I do. Why do you ask?"

"You've barely touched me since Tommy was born." There, I'd finally said it.

"I . . . I . . ."

I had the satisfaction of actually leaving Martin Ellingham momentarily speechless.

He cleared his throat. "You know, er, it's not advisable to have, um, sexual relations until at least six weeks post partum – until any lacerations have healed and the uterus has returned—"

"Oh, for God's sake, Martin, stop with the medical rubbish. I'm not talking sex. You haven't touched me or even held me." I tried to put force behind my words but was finding it difficult to concentrate. Everything was getting a little foggy. "Is it that I'm fat or that now I've had a baby, I'm no longer desirable?"

"Of course not! You're . . . very desirable – too desirable. If I start, I . . . well, I might not be able to stop. And until you're fully recovered . . . "

"I am . . . recovered." Goodness, I was tired. It was getting hard to think clearly and even harder to match wits with Martin. "Dr. . ." What was his name? "The doctor said so."

"I know. And I do want to . . . be intimate with you Louisa. Very much so."

Tonight would be a good start, if I could only focus. I squeezed my eyes together. I felt so weird. I fought my way out of the fog. "Martin."

His silver blue eyes met mine and he ran his hand along the edge of my chin. "Yes, Louisa."

"Do you love me?"

"Of course I do."

I needed him to say it, to say the words. I needed him to pull off my nightgown and make love to me. "I . . . I need . . ." What again did I need? I couldn't remember.

Martin gently pushed me back onto the bed. "You need to get some rest." One hand continued to stroke my face and the other gently took hold of my wrist. "That's it, close your eyes."

"Martin, what have you done?" I asked, as sleep overtook me.


	9. Chapter 9

Someone was shaking my shoulder. I turned away from the intrusion, lifting the blanket up over my head.

"Louisa." It was Martin's voice, insistent. "Wake up."

I felt the pressure of him sitting on the bed beside me. He pulled the blanket away, exposing me to the cold of the room. I opened my eyes and turned to him with a smile.

"Martin." Maybe now we could—My smile turned into a frown at the sight of him back in his suit and tie. "Why are you dressed?"

"It's seven-thirty in the morning. I need to get to the surgery and you need to—"

"Seven-thirty!" I exclaimed. "In the morning?" What had happened to the night? What about Tommy? I hadn't heard him cry. I hadn't fed him. I sat bolt upright in the bed. "Where's the baby?"

Martin nodded to the bedside cot. "Right here."

"But I . . . you . . . what happened?" I was completed confused.

Martin gave me the guilty smile he sometimes used when he was quite pleased with himself. "You slept through the night and I took care of the baby."

Martin had taken care of Tommy? All night? Which meant he hadn't slept. Now that I looked more closely, I saw his eyes were a bit red and his tie somewhat askew. How had I slept so soundly through Tommy's crying? I thought back on last night, how I'd felt so tired and foggy all of the sudden. I'd attributed it to exhaustion but now . . .

"The tea. You put something in my tea, didn't you? Something to help me sleep."

"You'd best get up," Martin said, ignoring my question. "I suspect Tommy's going to want to nurse shortly."

"You dosed me and then stayed up all night so I could sleep."

"Not all night."

I was furious with him for drugging me without my permission and yet thankful that he'd taken it upon himself to take care of the baby and me. I'd gotten almost twelve hours sleep, which was more than I'd had in months. Still, much as I'd needed the rest, I fervently wished I hadn't slept quite that long. If only I'd awakened an hour earlier, we could have . . . and now morning was here and both of us needed to go to work. Still, we had a few minutes.

"Come here a minute." I crooked my finger at him.

His eyes widened. "What?"

"Come closer."

He did. I reached up, grabbed his face in my hands, and pulled it to mine until our lips were touching. My tongue found his and explored the inside of his mouth. He adjusted his position and I could feel the tight press of his body against mine. After so many months, I'd almost forgotten how good he could make me feel. Keeping my lips locked tightly on his, my hands roamed his shoulders, his arms, and his chest – hungry for what I'd missed.

Even through the thick wool of his suit, I could feel his body responding to my touch. A second later, his hands moved from my face down my back, stroking me in the way I so desperately needed. One of his hands gently caressed my breast, sending waves of pleasure through my body. Oh God, how I'd missed this.

If we hurried, we could still—

From the side of the room, there was a single cry, as if Tommy wanted to remind us that he was still in the room.

Martin pulled away and cleared his throat. "We can't, ahem, Tommy needs feeding." He stood up from the bed. "I'd best be going. I need to change my suit and—"

"And I need to get to school. We can't have the head teacher be tardy, can we?" I asked, wishing I could be exactly that.

Tommy cried out again, a bit louder this time, and Martin crossed to the doorway in a few short steps.

"Will I see you tonight?" I asked.

"Uh, no. I'll be in London for the week. I leave tonight after surgery."

I frowned at him. This was the first I'd heard of this and I wondered what was drawing him back to London such a short time after he'd decided to stay in Portwenn.

"I need to do some continuing medical education classes," he explained. "The idiots at NHS think they make you a better doctor."

I stood up from the bed and walked over to the cot. "A week. Your daddy's going to be gone an entire week, Tommy." I picked up the baby and turned back to Martin. "Who will I call if there's a problem at school?"

"Samuels knows I'm away. And you can always call the Truro out-of-hours GP."

"A whole week."

"It's not forever, Louisa."

No, I thought to myself. After the events of this morning, it only seemed that way.

* * *

><p>There were days that made me realize why I'd become a teacher in the first place; today was one of them. I'd been teaching fractions to my third-graders since the beginning of the term. Some picked up quickly on the subject and others were slower to grasp the concept.<p>

Madeline Rhodes, daughter of the two accountants who considered her quite advanced, was in the slow group and, long after most of her classmates had moved on to adding and subtracting fractions, she was still struggling with the basics. Her parents were undoubtedly monitoring her progress and counting on the school – and me – to move her forward.

Today, however, it was as if a light had switched on and I could see that light in Madeline's eyes as she finally connected with what I'd been trying to teach her for the past month.

It had happened an hour earlier when I'd called her to the board to solve a problem in front of the class. I did so with some trepidation – allowing a child to fail in front of his or her peers could create serious confidence issues. However, I knew that I could help her through it and it was important that all my students have the opportunity to do board work in front of their classmates.

I ensured she was nearly the last student called and gave her an easy fractions problem – one-fourth plus one-fourth. She stood up from her desk and approached the board with obvious fear, eyes glassy and knees almost shaking as she picked up the chalk from its tray.

"All right, Madeline," I said, trying to project encouragement. "Where do you start on this problem?" I finished the question with a cough. I'd managed to catch a cold and was now dealing with the symptoms.

The girl stared at the figures on the chalkboard, transfixed. After a long and awkward moment, several of the other students raised their hands, trying to help her out.

I waved them off. "Madeline can do it," I said, hoping that she'd come through.

Madeline chewed on her lower lip. "The bottom numbers," she said.

"And what are they . . ." I cleared my throat. "What are they called?"

"Denominator."

"Right. And what is important about the denominator when adding fractions?"

"They have to be the same?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" It was a favorite teacher question designed to encourage confidence in our students.

"Telling you?"

Madeline drew a line after the "equals" sign and put a four underneath it. I sighed with relief that what she'd done was correct. The girl took a deep breath and, before I could say a word, added a two above it. Two-fourths. Not perfect, but it was a start. I held my breath and waited to see if she would stop there or complete the final step.

"Anything else?" I asked, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible. Let her figure it out, I reminded myself.

I almost jumped for joy as she carefully crossed out the two and made it a "one" and followed by changing the "four" to a "two." She'd done it! She'd actually done it.

"Excellent, Madeline. Well done." I tried not to let too much excitement creep into my voice but, inside, I was beaming. And, when Madeline turned away from the board to return to her seat, I could see that she was grinning from ear to ear.

An hour later, I was ready to go home but stopped by the art room to check on the day's activities, always eager to see what my students had created. After I'd scanned the day's Year 2 watercolors – an odd assortment of what looked to be flowers – I glanced out the window. The sky had been its usual grey when I'd been outside for recess and I wanted to see if it would be raining for my walk home.

I was surprised to see three boys lurking in the late afternoon shadows. The art room was in a back of the school and probably the only place from which to see the far corner of the school grounds. It was unusual for the children to be there after the school day had ended and I stood to the side of the window, observing.

When I saw who the boys were, I was more interested than ever in watching the goings on. There was Eddie Tydings, Harry Summers, and David Pritchard, another eleven-year-old. Harry and David were large for their age and easily towered over the lankier Eddie. What were the three of them doing in a corner of the asphalt playground after school? Was this the bullying about which Eddie's mother was so concerned? I held my breath, torn between wanting to stop whatever might be about to happen and wanting to see what actually did happen.

Standing close to the larger boys, Eddie didn't seem unhappy or distressed. As I watched more closely, Harry slowly pulled something out of his pocket. My stomach clenched, fearful that it was a knife or some other weapon.

Eddie reached out a hand and took the object from Harry. It was small and thin and looked like . . . maybe a trading card of some sort, possibly one of the football cards that were so popular among the boys. David leaned over Eddie's shoulder and the three of them seemed quite animated as they talked for several moments. To my eye, no one seemed angry or aggressive; the discussion looked businesslike bordering on friendly.

Then it was Eddie's turn to reach into his pocket and hand something to Harry. Given the way Harry fingered the item, I assumed it was money. The three boys talked for another minute and then parted ways – Harry and David headed in one direction and Eddie in another, an obvious spring in his step.

I shook my head. If Harry or David had wanted to do anything inappropriate to Eddie, the last few moments had provided the perfect opportunity. They were alone, after school, in a dark corner of the schoolyard, where no one was likely to see them. Yet nothing had happened other than some sort of exchange. From what I could tell, Eddie had bought a trading card from Harry and both sides seemed quite pleased with the deal. It was a far cry from the allegations of Mrs. Tydings. Strange.

I returned to my office and gathered up my supplies. By the time I reached the front door, it had started to rain and I was thankful that I'd brought an umbrella for the walk home. As I approached the school gate, I noticed one of the students was still there, standing in the rain without any cover. A few steps later, I recognized the boy as Eddie Tydings.

"Eddie," I said, as I came upon him. "Why are you standing in the rain?"

"Waiting for my mum," he replied.

"Yes, but you're getting soaked." Even though the temperature was still relatively mild, I was a bit chilled.

"It's all right, Miss Glasson." He shrugged. "Just a little rain."

"How long until your mum gets here?"

He glanced at his watch. "She'll be here soon."

I moved closer until my umbrella largely covered him as well as me. "Eddie, we talked a few weeks ago about how the other boys in school treat you and how it was important that you tell me or one of the other teachers if anything distresses you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"So is there?"

"Is there what?"

"Have any of the other boys caused you any problems?"

"No, Miss Glasson."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I wanted to ask him about the trading card but that would only tell him that I'd been spying and Eddie certainly seemed calm.

"You promise you'll let me know if anyone bothers you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'd rather you not stay out here in the rain."

"It's all right," he said, then shrugged. "If it gets too bad, my mum said to go to Mrs. Tishell's. She'll let me stay there."

"Good." I smiled. "All right, then. I'll see you in the morning." With a brief backward glance, I stepped away and started my walk uphill, to my home and my son.


	10. Chapter 10

When I opened my door the following Saturday morning, the last person I expected to see was Joan Norten, casseroles in hand.

"I brought you a shepherd's pie," she said, carrying them into my kitchen. "And a blueberry pie for dessert. I figured with Martin away you could use a bit of extra help."

"Thank you. They look wonderful." I appreciated the gifts of food today more than usual. I'd picked up a cold right after Martin left and, even with a heavy dose of over-the-counter medications, was still suffering.

"So, how are you managing without Martin this week?" she asked. "Or is it the same as every other week?"

"It's a bit rough without him around. He's helped out more than I expected. But I know he still thinks I'm trying to do too much. It's bad enough that some of the parents think I can't do it—"

"Which parents?" She slid the casserole into the fridge and set the pie on the counter. "From what I hear, everyone's happy to have you back."

"Mrs. Tydings, for one. She thinks her son's being bullied. He got hurt last week and she blamed the school." I sighed. "She's threatened to make a formal complaint."

"What happened?"

"Eddie – that's her son – and another boy ran into each other playing football; just an accident. When Martin examined him, there were a few older bruises. But none of the teachers has seen or heard anything."

"Well, I learned the hard way when Marty stayed with us years ago that young boys often come home with a mess of cuts and scrapes and then can't tell you how they got them. Martha Tydings needs to find something else to worry about."

"And then there's Mr. Rhodes who thinks his daughter is smarter than she is. And—"

"Louisa, surely parents with issues about their children are nothing new. You'd be having these same discussions with difficult parents whether or not you had a child."

"I know. But when Martin says I can't do it, it hurts even more. I thought that when he decided to come back here, he'd support me. But he still thinks I can't work and be a mum at the same time."

"Can you?"

I caught myself before I gave her my automatic answer that I could do it all. Joan might be Martin's aunt, but she was brutally honest with me as well as him and, at times, was the only confidante I had.

I coughed away a tickle at the back of my throat. "I don't know. When I'm at school, I feel like I'm shortchanging Tommy and when I rush out of school to get home, I feel like I'm shortchanging my students. And I'm tired all the time and then I let little things get to me, like difficult parents and spilling groceries."

"Louisa, I think most mothers feel that way at times."

"I just wish Martin could be a bit more understanding."

"Have you considered that he might be afraid you can do it all?"

My eyes widened. "What?"

"If you do it all yourself, then you won't need him. And neither will Tommy."

"But that's what he's said he wanted all along – not to be involved."

Joan gave a snort that so reminded me of Martin. "That's rubbish and you know it. I heard what he said at the pub when you were giving birth. It was probably the first time I've ever heard Martin admit he was wrong about anything. He wants to be part of your life, Louisa. And part of Tommy's life. He's just not sure how to go about it."

I pulled out a tissue and coughed into it. "Well, he certainly doesn't act like it."

"Give him a chance. It's a lot for him to deal with. And remember, his own childhood memories aren't the best. It's not as if he has a good example of how to raise a child."

"He has memories of you."

"Yes," she said slowly. "Although sometimes I think he makes them out to be better than they were. No one's a perfect parent."

"I just hope he didn't make a mistake coming back here. That he didn't get all emotional when Tommy was born—"

"Of course he got emotional! It was his son, for goodness sakes. He's supposed to get emotional." She put her hand on her hip. "Now, enough of this serious talk. What are your plans for this afternoon?"

I told her that I needed to work on my lesson plans, prepare for the next governor's meeting, and make sure the fall festival event was on track. The thought of simply lying in bed and getting over my cold was also strangely inviting.

"All that can wait. You need to do something fun for a change."

"Such as?"

"Go shopping in Truro."

"But I don't need anything."

"Not for you. For Tommy. We can get him some new clothes. And maybe get you some as well."

I looked over to the cot where Tommy was fast asleep and realized he really didn't have all that much to wear. I'd received a few items at my baby shower but had planned to do most of my shopping in the weeks before the baby was born. His premature arrival left me no time to shop. As a result, he'd worn the same outfits far too many times in the past weeks.

"It's nice of you to offer, Joan, but I really need to—"

"You need to get out. Out of your house. Out of Portwenn. Do something for yourself for a change."

She was right. I did need to do something other than go to school and stay home with Tommy. While this wouldn't make up for my lack of a romantic evening with Martin, at least it was something of a change of pace and scenery from the past few weeks.

It took nearly an hour to get Tommy packed up and another to get to Truro. Once there, however, I had to admit that Joan was right. It did feel good to do something other than work and take care of the baby.

"What about this one?" Joan asked in the shop, holding up a blue and white striped onesie covered with tiny blue bumblebees.

"Oh, it's wonderful," I replied, then looked at the price tag. "Good God. It's nearly twenty pounds!" I exclaimed. "That's ridiculous. He'll have grown out of it in a few months at most."

"Surely Martin gives you enough money?"

"Of course, he does." In fact, the cheques he'd given me were more than generous, and I could easily afford the little outfit and many more. "It's a matter of principle," I explained.

"Oh, Louisa. It's all right to splurge on your own child."

I took another look at the outfit. It was cute. "All right. But only this one. After that, we go to the sale rack."

But we didn't. Joan and I picked out one outfit after another, each of which would look splendid on Tommy and each of which represented a level of expense that was new to me.

I'd always been economical in selecting my own clothing – as a teacher, practicality seemed more important than forward fashion. Now, purchasing clothing for my son, I wanted him to be the best dressed child in all of Portwenn. It was irrational, I knew. Tommy spit up on everything and he'd grow out of these clothes in only a few months. And he certainly didn't know or care what he wore. But I did.

Joan and I added a mobile for his cot, several baby books, a half-dozen receiving blankets, three sets of booties, and an assortment of other items that promised to make baby more fashionable and motherhood easier. I also picked up a few skirts and tops for me to wear at school. At the end of two hours, fatigue was starting to set in and I knew Tommy was due to wake soon.

It had been good to spend a few hours thinking about something other than Portwenn Primary. And I always enjoyed my time with Joan. In many ways over the years, she'd been the mother I never had. A mother to me, and often a mother to Martin as well. Strange for a woman who didn't have children of her own.

I felt another tickle in the back of my throat and coughed into my hand.

"Louisa, are you all right? You've been sneezing and coughing all day."

"Just a cold. One of the hazards of being around children all day."

We drove in silence for several miles. From the back seat, I heard Tommy start to whimper. "Uh-oh, I bet he's getting hungry."

"Should I pull over now?"

"No, I think he can last until we get home."

When we pulled up to the cottage a short time later, I realized that I'd needed today. I was dragging a bit but an afternoon of doing nothing but spending time and money on Tommy and me was exactly what I'd needed. Now, the chores of grading papers, developing lesson plans, dealing with recalcitrant parents and caring for Tommy on my own suddenly seemed much more manageable.


	11. Chapter 11

I'd fainted in front of my class once before and I was determined not to do it again, at least not today.

Not ten minutes into teaching my afternoon maths class, my body was wracked with a series of hard coughs that left me holding one hand over my mouth while the other grabbed the edge my desk for support. I was exhausted and my throat ached from a day filled with similar fits. It felt as if I could cough up an entire lung, yet my throat remained dry and rough.

In the past few days, my cold had taken a decided turn for the worse. With Martin out of town, I hadn't wanted to make the trek to Wadebridge just to have Samuels tell me I had a nasty viral infection that would, as Martin liked to remind his patients, get better on its own. So, I'd grabbed some over-the-counter remedies from Mrs. Tishell and made the best of it. Nonetheless, between teaching full time during the day and taking care of Tommy at night, there was little time to rest and, now, my body was starting to feel the cumulative effects of my illness.

"Miss Glasson, are you all right?" Eddie Tydings, resplendent in a bright blue cast, looked up at me with worried powder-blue eyes. "Should I fetch you some water?"

I needed more than a glass of water. In my current state, I couldn't continue teaching – at least not today. "Get Miss Adams," I managed to croak. "Next room." Speaking incited another round of coughs that left me nearly breathless.

My class was eerily calm, with no one taking advantage of the fact their teacher was in no shape to provide any discipline. I was touched by their obvious concern and longed to be able to say or do something reassuring. Instead, I focused on taking shallow breaths.

"Should you sit down, Miss?" Theodore James asked, bringing the desk chair closer to where I was standing. Dark-haired and thoughtful, he was already a natural leader. 

"Thank you," I said, nearly falling into it. I winced at the thought that my entire class was watching me suffer and wanted nothing more than to make my way back to my office where I could lie down for a few minutes out of sight of my students. The only problem was that I lacked the energy to do anything of the sort.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dorothy Adams stride into the room and quickly survey the situation. She stepped over to me and whispered softly. "You okay, Louisa?"

"Not really," I replied honestly.

She turned toward the class and spoke in a controlled but urgent voice. "All right, children, we're going to have recess early today. Theodore, I want you to lead the class outside and join Mr. Collins' class on the playground. Come on, let's go. Emma, you get behind Theodore. Everyone in line. There you go. Go directly outside. Stay in your lines until you get there. I'll be out shortly."

"Is Miss Glasson all right?" someone called out.

"She'll be fine," Dorothy responded firmly. "You can help her by doing as I say and going outside quickly."

Several of the children stopped by the desk to murmur well wishes on their way out of the room and I did my best to smile at them in return.

As soon as the last child had cleared the classroom, Dorothy hunched over me. "Louisa, what's wrong?"

"I don't know. I was so tired I could bearly stand up and then I couldn't stop coughing . . ."

"Let's get you to your office and I'll call Doc Martin."

I rubbed my hands on my temples. "No, don't do that." Martin had been back only a day from his week-long trip to London and was no doubt busy catching up in the surgery. Not to mention that he'd be all over me for not taking care of myself, not getting enough rest, and all the other complaints he'd made over the past few weeks about my trying to do too much.

"It's a bad cold," I added. "I just need to take some cough syrup and rest."

I pulled myself into a standing position, which sent me into another round of coughing.

"If that's a cold, it's the nastiest one I've ever seen." Dorothy took me by the arm. "Come on, let's get you to your office."

Once there I slumped in my chair and watched as, despite my protestations, Dorothy insisted on calling Martin. There were muffled voices on the other end that I couldn't make out and then Dorothy spoke into the phone. "Louisa is the one who's ill."

Her statement was followed by some more shuffling on the line and then, from the way Dorothy's posture stiffened, I sensed that Martin had taken the phone from his receptionist.

"She's weak and has a terrible cough," Dorothy reported, followed by a pause. "In her office." There was another pause as Dorothy was obviously taking note of Martin's instructions. "Yes, Doctor."

She hung up the phone and turned to me. "He said to have you sit upright and that he'll be here straight away. You're to take no medication until he gets here."

While I waited, I did as Martin had instructed and also sipped some water, which was pleasantly soothing. I encouraged Dorothy to go outside with the children but she insisted on staying with me until Martin arrived.

Dorothy was right – my cough was bad and I probably did need medical attention. Still, getting help from Martin likely meant a stern lecture as well and, as exhausted as I felt, I really wasn't up for that.

Less than ten minutes later, Martin strode through my office door, wearing an expression somewhere between annoyance and concern. His eyes were already examining me, and I was torn between trying to make myself look stronger than I felt or letting things be so that he didn't consider himself summoned for nothing. In the end, there was no way I could hope to imitate my normal, healthy self. I could however, offer some apology for once again pulling him away from his surgery and all the inconveniences that created.

"Martin," I said, "I'm sorry Dorothy called you." I coughed. "I was just—"

"Of course she called me." He set his bag on the desk and came to stand over me, eyes bright and with a scowl on his features. "Any idiot can see that you're ill."

Great. He was in one of _those_ moods. I tilted my head back and sighed.

Martin turned to Dorothy. "That's all," he said dismissively.

"Huh?"

"You can go."

"Oh," she replied, then turned back to me. "I hope you feel better, Louisa. I'll make sure the children—"

"Now," Martin said, eyes already ushering her out the door.

"She means well," I said when she'd gone. "You didn't need to be rude."

"I wasn't." He picked up my wrist and checked the rate against his watch. "What happened to you?" he asked, his tone softening just a bit.

"I was teaching maths and suddenly felt weak. And I've been having coughing fits – I can't seem to stop."

"You've been feeling tired for some time now," he said, but this time there was no accusation in his voice. He touched the back of his hand to my forehead and then my cheeks, frowning slightly.

"It's a bad cold," I said. "I can't seem to shake it."

Martin shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a doctor," he replied irritably. "I'll take you home; I can examine you there and then you can get straight to bed where you belong. Can you walk to my car?"

"Martin, we have a musical assembly this afternoon."

"Which you obviously won't be attending."

"Martin!" The event had been planned for weeks and most of the parents would be there. It was also an opportunity for Roger Fenn to show off all of the work he'd done at my behest. How would it look if the head teacher were absent?

"Louisa, until I examine you, I can't diagnose what's wrong," Martin said, allowing his frustration to show. "It's quite possible that what you have is communicable, so I don't think it wise to remain here around the children, do you?"

It really wasn't a question, and the last thing I wanted to do was infect the children, as he surely knew. Blast him sometimes.

"All right." It's not as if I had much choice in the matter. I couldn't very well stay at school – let alone host the assembly – if I couldn't speak without coughing or stand without collapsing.

Martin helped me to my feet and I tried not to lean too heavily on him. He must have noticed because he shifted so as to take more of my weight and wrapped his arm around my waist. "It's all right, Louisa. Take it slowly."

There was, I had to admit, a comfort in having his strong arms holding me, even it was for all the wrong reasons. Rather than fight it, I relaxed into his grip.

"The children aren't in the hallway, are they?" I asked. "They can't see me like this."

Martin's expression made clear he didn't give a damn what the children saw but he nonetheless peered into the corridor outside the office. "I don't see anyone."

Less than a minute later, we stepped into the rare Portwenn sunshine, only a few feet from his Lexus, which was parked directly outside the main door.

Billy, one of my first years ran up to me. "Miss Glasson," he asked, eyes wide. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Billy. I'm just tired. I'm going home to get some rest."

Martin opened the passenger door of his car and helped me inside.

"I hope you feel better," the boy said. "The doc'll take good care of you, won't he?"

I forced a smile. "Yes, Billy, I'm sure he will."


	12. Chapter 12

The second Martin put the Lexus into gear, he started badgering me with questions. As usual, there was no effort to make small talk. He went right to work as my GP, even though he wasn't exactly my GP.

"What were you doing before you fainted?" he asked, eyes fixed on the road ahead, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel.

"I didn't faint," I protested, leaning my head against the leather headrest. "I felt weak."

"Before you felt weak, then," he said with annoyance at my quibbling. "What were you doing?"

"I told you, standing at the board teaching maths."

"Were you lightheaded or dizzy?"

"No – just incredibly tired, if that makes any sense."

"What have you eaten today?"

I remembered he'd asked me this the last time I'd fainted and shuddered at that memory. "A banana and cereal for breakfast. Ham sandwich for lunch." At least this time lack of food wasn't the likely culprit.

"How long have you had the cough?"

"A few days."

"Is it productive? Are you coughing up phlegm or blood?"

Blood? That thought was chilling. "No, nothing like that. I can't seem to cough up anything."

And on it went, as we passed the pharmacy, the bakery, the flower shop. It bordered on an inquisition and I did my best to answer honestly and succinctly. After the events of a week ago, I wasn't exactly keen to play patient to Martin's doctor, but recognized I was sick and that letting him care for me was my best chance to get well quickly – that is, if I could endure much more of the overprotectiveness that always seemed to emerge where my health was concerned.

I wasn't sure which came first – Martin running out of questions or our arriving at the front of my cottage.

"Is this close enough?" he asked. "Can you walk inside?"

"Of course I can," I said, with some irritation of my own. After resting for even the short car ride, I was feeling much stronger and now maybe even a little silly for this entire episode.

Tanya greeted us at the door, first surprised to see me coming home in the middle of the day and then concerned as she saw Martin and his medical bag.

"Louisa's ill," he said with his usual bluntness. "Take Tommy for a stroll until I finish examining her."

"How was Tommy today?" I asked over Martin's shoulder.

"Fine, Louisa. Slept like an angel—"

"Out, now," Martin interrupted, pointing Tanya outside and me upstairs.

This wasn't exactly how I'd pictured it in my dreams, the two of us entering my bedroom together. Martin had one thing on his mind and I knew it had absolutely nothing to do with a romantic interlude. And, in my current state, I had neither energy nor even desire to do anything other than let him take care of me.

Inside my bedroom, I stared with dismay at the rumpled sheets, wishing I'd taken the time to make up my bed before I'd left for school. After making a half-hearted attempted to neaten things, I gave up and sat down on the side of my bed.

Martin seemed not to notice my efforts as he pulled supplies from his case and set them on the bedside table. His first step was to check my temperature, once again taking my pulse as he waited.

"38.1," he reported. "Have you felt feverish?"

"I've had a few chills."

"Hmm." He clicked on his pocket light and held out the tongue depressor. "Open."

Feeling like one of my six-year-old pupils, I obediently opened my mouth and tried not to gag on the thin stick of wood. Martin's eyes narrowed and he frowned. "You've had a sore throat."

"A bit of one with my cold," I acknowledged. "I picked up some lozenges from Mrs. Tishell."

Martin's hands were already feeling along the sides of my neck. It hurt and, despite the fact he was clearly trying to be gentle, I flinched at the touch.

"Your lymph nodes are swollen," he said and reached for his stethoscope. "I need you to take off your blouse and, um, bra." He picked up a towel that I'd left lying at the foot of my bed. "You can cover yourself with this."

I hesitated. "Why. . . ?"

"Because I need to examine your chest," he said. There was a trace of apology in his voice but also the frustration he so often expressed when patients didn't immediately follow his orders. He sighed loudly. "If you're uncomfortable, I'll drive you to Wadebridge to see Samuels."

Of course I was uncomfortable. Even though there was no one I'd rather have as my GP and even though I trusted Martin implicitly, it was still always a little awkward to have him examine me, which was one of the reasons we'd agreed that Samuels would provide me with routine care.

Even as these thoughts raced through my mind, I told myself I was being completely ridiculous. Martin wouldn't ask me to do anything he didn't consider medically necessary and I certainly didn't want to make the hour's drive to Wadebridge. And, for God's sake, Martin had already seen me naked. Still, there was a difference between Martin the doctor and Martin the . . . the other Martin . . . that I could never quite shake.

"No," I said in a determined voice, "it's fine."

"Right." He turned his back in what was obviously an effort to give me a bit of privacy.

A minute later, it was the efficient, clinical Martin Ellingham who placed the tips of the stethoscope in his ears and touched a hand to my shoulder. It felt reassuring, even though he probably didn't intend it that way. I felt the press of a cold circle on my back.

"Deep breath in."

I shivered and sucked in a breath.

"And out." He moved the stethoscope a few inches to the left. "Again."

The second breath sent me into another coughing spasm. Martin listened to my back for a few seconds, then gently held me as I continued to cough uncontrollably. My fit lasted nearly a half-minute and left my throat and chest sore and me breathless.

Martin seized both my shoulders and the blue eyes that stared into mine were filled with concern. "How long have you been like this?"

"Just the last day," I admitted, trying to clear my throat.

"Why didn't you call me?"

The hurt in his voice cut me to the quick. For Martin, the one thing he could always give me – the one thing he knew I could count on from him – was first-rate medical care. Over and over, he'd proven that even when he couldn't be an excellent friend or confidante or fiancé or even father, he was always an excellent doctor regardless of whether he was caring for me or one of the other denizens of Portwenn. And yet, when I'd fallen ill this time, I'd not sought him out. To him, it must seem like the ultimate rejection.

I hadn't called him for many reasons. He was in London. I thought it was just a bad cold. And, calling him would have been admitting that I couldn't handle my jobs as teacher and mum without my body breaking down and to admit that would be to acknowledge that he'd been right and I'd been wrong.

My eyes refused to meet his. "I didn't . . . I thought it would get . . . I don't know, Martin."

"You thought a cough like that would get better on its own?" His tone was clipped.

"I thought it was a virus. You're the one who gets annoyed when patients bother you when they only have a cold."

"I'm annoyed that they want me to prescribe antibiotics, not that they come to see me."

"You're always right, aren't you, Martin?" I wasn't going to win this argument and, right now, hadn't the energy for our usual bickering.

"I'm—" Martin blew out a long breath.

He had a thoughtful expression and I wondered if he'd tell me that he was sorry.

"I'm just trying to help you," he finally said.

We were never good at apologies, either of us. "I . . . I know, Martin."

"Hmm," was all he said and returned to his meticulous examination, fingers tapping gently down my spine. He sat next to me on the bed and listened to my chest, being careful to displace the towel as little as possible. I tried to make eye contact but his eyes fixed on the wall behind me. Finally, he had me lie back and gently pressed on my abdomen, explaining that he wanted to check my spleen.

"My spleen?" I asked, recalling that Peter Cronk had suffered from a ruptured spleen. Was that what Martin was thinking?

"You symptoms could be due to mononucleosis and one of the primary signs of mononucleosis is an enlarged spleen."

Mono? Martin thought I had the kissing disease? "How could I have mono?" I asked. "I thought only teenagers got that."

"No. It's most common in teens but the disease can strike at any age." He drew the bedcovers over me. "Your spleen is normal."

"So you're saying I don't have mono?"

"I don't think so, although I'll do a spot test to check." He pulled off his stethoscope and stood up from the bed. "Would you like your, um, dressing gown?"

I sat up slightly, keeping the towel pressed tightly to my chest. "After you tell what's wrong with me."

He curled the stethoscope in his hand. "I think you have a form of pneumonia."

"Pneumonia?" I whispered, eyes widening.

"Mycoplasma pneumonia," he clarified, as if it made any difference to me. "I'll draw some blood to confirm the diagnosis."

"Martin, what is micro—?" It sounded terrible.

He raised his eyebrows slightly and looked down at me with the slightest touch of amusement in his eyes. "Maybe you should get dressed first," he reminded me.

I followed his eyes and realized only a towel covered my chest. I quickly retrieved my pajama top from the far edge of the bed.

Martin again turned his back and repacked his bag. "Mycoplasma pneumonia is an atypical form of bacterial pneumonia," he said over his shoulder. "It's often referred to as a 'walking pneumonia' in that it usually doesn't require hospitalization. The primary symptoms are severe fatigue and an unproductive cough."

That fit my situation exactly and I had no doubt in the accuracy of his diagnosis. "Is it serious? What about Tommy?" God help me if my delay in seeking treatment had hurt him.

He faced me with the same half-smile he'd given me months ago when he'd first heard the baby's heartbeat through the ultrasound. "Mycoplasma is easily treated with antibiotics – erythromycin. It generally isn't contagious in infants, although it's best to minimize your contact with Tommy until the antibiotics take hold."

I sighed with relief. At least I wouldn't make my son sick. Probably. Still, I didn't like the fact that I had pneumonia of any kind.

Martin reached into his case and rummaged around. "I probably have some of the antibiotic with me. Yep." He pulled out a bottle containing a handful of pills. "This'll do until I get more from Mrs. Tishell. I'll just fetch you some water."

When he returned, he handed me a glass and one of the tablets, which I quickly swallowed.

"How did I get pneumonia?"

"Exposure to someone who has it."

"And my students? Will they get sick from me?" The thought that I might have infected them filled me with dread.

"Possibly. Mycoplasma is commonly spread in schools. I'll make sure the teachers know what to look for. If someone else does contract it, it's easily treated."

Just brilliant. "How long will I have to stay home from school?"

"After three days on the antibiotic, you'll no longer be contagious. However, the symptoms – the fatigue and the cough – can last for several weeks.""

"Several weeks?"

"How soon you can return to school will depend on how quickly you regain your strength. As the infection travels through your lungs, you may experience pain in your back and your chest, which can delay recovery."

Martin had said what I had wasn't serious but, as he described it, it sounded bloody awful. How was I going to be out of school for several weeks? And, in my current state, how was I going to find the energy to take care of Tommy?

He reached into his case and pulled out his blood draw kit. I wordlessly held out my right arm and watched as he wiped the crook of my elbow then painlessly slipped in the needle, glancing away as my blood filled the vial. When it was full, he removed the needle and handed me a small gauze, which I pressed to the tiny wound.

"Martin, go ahead and say it." I coughed loudly.

His eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted. "Say what?"

"Tell me that I brought this on myself by trying to do too much too soon. You've been wanting to say it since you walked into my office. Go ahead and get it over with."

"Louisa." His voice was soft. "Mycoplasma pneumonia is caused by a bacteria, not by exhaustion or overwork. The fact that you're a bit run down may have made you more susceptible to illness and may require a longer recovery period, but nothing you did _caused_ this."

Oddly, it was one of the kindest things Maritn had said to me. "You know I'd never do anything that might hurt Tommy—"

Martin's hand covered mine. "Of course not. Your illness won't hurt Tommy – I promise you that."

"But I won't be able to take care of him properly. You saw me today, I can barely stand up and you said I shouldn't be near him for awhile." I sucked in a deep breath and started coughing again, holding my chest which stung with every hack.

Martin frowned. "I'll get you some codeine; it'll help with the cough and the pain. And as for Tommy, Tanya can watch him during the day and, if you like, I can stay with you at night." He cleared his throat. "In the guestroom, that is. Um, to take care of the baby until you're stronger."

"Martin, you can't do that. He'll keep you up all night." I knew how much his precious eight hours of sleep meant to him. "How will you manage?"

"Louisa, families with sick mums have been 'managing' as you put it since the beginning of time. You're ill and need help. That's all there is to it. Now, I need to leave so as to get your blood, your medicines and my afternoon surgery sorted. In the meantime, you're to lie in this bed and not get up other than to use the toilet. I'll phone Tanya to come back – she can fix you a light meal that should hold you until I get back. I won't be long."

For once, I didn't mind Martin's take-charge approach and the fact I had no say in the matter. He was moving back in. I didn't care that the reason was medical, not romantic. He would be here, with me and with Tommy, at least for a while. After that . . . well, it looked like I'd have some time for me to get _that_ sorted out.


	13. Chapter 13

That first week of my illness, our lives took on an almost clinical routine. Martin moved into my guest room, taking Tommy with him. In the morning, Martin would bring me breakfast and assure me that Tommy wasn't experiencing any ill effects of my disease. Then Tanya would arrive and he'd leave for the surgery.

Tanya brought me lunch and, I was certain, phoned Martin at least once during the day to report on my condition – and probably whether or not I was obeying his instructions to stay in bed. When he arrived home, he'd check me over medically, prepare my dinner, and then get Tommy ready for bed. While I admired his willingness to care for the baby, I had my doubts about how well it would go.

On the morning of day two, I was awakened by the sound of Martin's voice coming down the short upstairs hallway. I couldn't make out the words but the tone told me that he was quite frustrated about something.

Pulling on my dressing gown, I followed the sound of mild expletives to the bathroom, involuntarily smiling at the sight that confronted me. Martin, dressed in his suit, knelt on the ground with one knee on the bathmat. He was bent over the bathtub holding the plastic baby tub and attempting to give Tommy a bath.

Martin was trying to keep Tommy upright in one hand and wash him with the other. I knew it was Martin's first attempt at giving the baby a bath and, as I'd already discovered, infants were incredibly slippery, especially when covered with soapy water. Trying to hold the baby, keep his head upright, and use a washcloth at the same time was harder than it looked – and probably harder than Martin had expected.

There was soap and water everywhere – in the bathtub, on the floor and all over Martin's suit. Given that only about ten centimeters of water was needed for the tub, I wondered where all of the water had come from. The cuffs of his shirt and suit were soaked and it was obvious that the kneeling position beside the tub was uncomfortable. To make matters worse, Tommy started crying.

"Would you hold still!" he said, adjusting the position of his right hand to get a better grip on the baby and using his left to wipe some portion of Tommy's anatomy.

Of course, I knew that the baby wasn't moving much on his own at this point. I tried not to laugh at the sight but must have made some noise because Martin turned around and gave me an annoyed look. "Why does this have to be so difficult?" he asked. "And why aren't you in bed?"

I decided to ignore his second question. "Martin, why are you giving him a bath now?" Infants only needed baths every several days and I thought we'd agreed that, until I felt better, Tanya would take over the duty while she was there during the day.

"He had a loose stool that got all over . . . everything. I couldn't very well leave him like that."

Only Martin would describe a seriously dirty diaper as a "loose stool." Knowing how Martin reacted to untidiness and to obnoxious smells, the fact that he'd gotten this far with Tommy was a testament to his determination to see this through and, despite the humor of the situation, I was suddenly very proud of him.

Tommy squirmed again and, as Martin tried to hold him, water splashed his face causing him to sputter.

"For God's sakes!"

"Martin, don't use that language in front of the baby."

He turned around. "It's not as if he can understand me."

"That's not the point."

"The point is how such a small baby can make such a large mess."

"It helps," I said, "If you're not wearing a suit when trying to give him a bath."

"I was dressed for the surgery," he replied. "I wasn't planning to do this before I left."

"Yes, but you could . . . never mind. Do you want me to do it?"

"No, you're still contagious and I think I'm nearly finished anyway."

As I took in the scene more closely, I realized Martin had done exactly what the experts recommended in terms of laying out all of the supplies in advance. A large, bulky towel was at hand and, as I looked on, Martin managed to pull Tommy from the tub and wrap him in the towel in one, almost smooth, motion. Whether from the warmth of the towel or being out of the water, Tommy's crying abruptly turned into little coos.

"Shall I put out a fresh suit for you?" I asked. It would take some time for the one he was wearing to dry and I didn't think he'd want to have to explain to his patients why he was soaked through on a day when it wasn't raining.

He looked down as if trying to decide whether he could salvage what he was wearing. "Um, yes, that would be fine. The grey one will do."

That didn't seem much help, given that most of his suits were grey. I'd just have to pick one. I watched for another moment as Martin meticulously dried the baby and then reached for a tiny nappie.

"Martin."

He turned to me with an expression that seemed to expect another criticism. "Yes, Louisa."

"You're a good father."

* * *

><p>By the morning of the third day, Martin looked as exhausted as I felt. He'd insisted on doing all of the night feedings, and Tommy was waking up once or twice during the night. As a result, by morning, his eyes were bloodshot and his temper short. He didn't complain, but I knew my illness was requiring him to take on much more than he'd bargained for and it left me feeling quite guilty.<p>

That afternoon Dr. Samuels stopped and gave me a brief examination.

"Sorry I didn't get here earlier," he said. "I've had a few emergencies these past couple of days and I knew you were in good hands. Martin probably told you the blood test confirmed his diagnosis. It was a good catch on his part," he added. "We don't see too many of these atypical pneumonias around here. Getting you started on the antibiotics right away should lessen the course of the illness."

"I hope so. I'm tired of being tired, if that makes any sense."

He smiled. "It does, though much as I know you hate to hear me say it, rest is the best thing for you right now." He stood up. "I'll check in on you again in a week or so. In the meantime, I'm sure Martin will take good care of . . ." He smiled. "Things."

By day six, I was stir crazy.

"Martin," I complained as he examined me that evening. "I can't stand another day in this room and in this bed."

He sat on the bed behind me. "Deep breath."

I clamped my mouth shut. "Martin, did you hear me?" I asked, keeping my breathing as shallow as possible.

"I'm sitting right behind you, so of course I heard you. Now take a deep breath."

No one from the school had so much as called and I was certain Martin had threatened all sorts of dire things if they disturbed me. I was still tired and coughing, but even Martin admitted that I was no longer contagious so there was no reason to confine me to this room without even a call or visit. I was starting to feel like a prisoner in my own home.

"I need to know what's going on at school. I _am_ still the head teacher, you know."

"I'm keenly aware of that."

God, he could be infuriating. "What did you tell the school about me?"

He pulled the stethoscope out of his ears and exhaled loudly. "I told them you were ill, that you would recover fully, and what you needed most to get better quickly was complete rest. With what part of my medical opinion do you disagree?"

"None of it, Martin." Of course there was nothing I could disagree with, which was why he was so infuriating. "But I'll get better faster if I know what's going on at school. I know I'm not ready to go back, but I can at least talk on the phone, can't I?"

"Do you want to delay your recovery?"

"I just want to talk on the phone for a few minutes, not run three miles."

"I suppose a few minutes won't hurt. However, only a few minutes," he warned.

I allowed myself a smile. "Thank you."

"Right." He put the stethoscope back in his ears. "Now will you _please_ take a deep breath."

* * *

><p>The next day had me calling him at the surgery in a panic.<p>

I'd felt strong enough to try to make my way downstairs for lunch. As I stood up from the bed, there was an eerie sensation of water sloshing around in my back and when I moved, it was like a small wave crashing back and forth. This was something new and completely terrifying.

"It's fluid in your lungs," Martin said a short time later, after he'd come home and listened to my back. "Uncomfortable, but not unexpected."

"You might have warned me."

"Not every patient experiences this symptom."

I hated when he referred to me as his patient even though, at the moment, I was. "Well, it feels awful."

"I'm sure it does."

"What happens to it – the fluid, I mean?"

"Eventually, your body will absorb it. Could be in a few days or longer than a week."

I continued to be exhausted, my back and chest hurt something fierce, and now I had a swimming pool in my back. It felt like a setback and was incredibly discouraging. "Martin, am I ever going to get better?"

He sat down next to me on the bed and took my hand in his. "Yes, Louisa, you are. It will just take some time, and unfortunately, there's not much I can do to speed your recovery. You simply have to rest as much as possible and let your body heal."

"I'm tired of resting. It's all I do – just lie here and read or sleep or watch insane telly programs while someone else runs my school and you and Tanya take care of my son! And I'm getting worse, not better!"

"I'm sorry, Louisa. Sorry that you're ill and sorry I can't make you better more quickly." And, looking into his eyes, I knew he was.


	14. Chapter 14

On day eleven, Mr. Sands, one of the school governors called. "I'm sorry to bother you when you're recuperating, but Miss Adams said you were up to taking calls."

"Of course." I still wasn't strong enough to return to school, even for a few hours. However, I did have the energy to take short phone calls, which allowed me to have some influence in running my school. "What can I do for you?"

"I received a call from the mother of one of your students. Martha Tydings."

I blew out a breath. Not her again. Would I ever be rid of that woman?

"She raised concerns about her son Eddie being bullied at school. She said she'd already talked with you about the matter."

"Yes, she has." I briefly explained to Mr. Sands what I'd done to investigate the allegations and my follow up with Mrs. Tydings. "We've not been able to find any evidence that her concerns are valid and we've implemented a number of steps to ensure that such activity does not occur at the school with Eddie or any other child."

"I am confident that you have, Miss Glasson, and the other governors and I have no concerns about your handling of the situation. However, as you know, I'm required to ensure that, as the head teacher, you are made aware of all issues that are brought to the attention of the governing board. I'm simply fulfilling that responsibility."

"I understand."

"Now that you've been informed, as far as I'm concerned the matter is closed. Obviously, if there are any new developments, I trust you'll let me know."

"I certainly will, Mr. Sands."

When Martin came home that evening, I followed up with him on the issue over dinner. It frustrated me that Martin was the one cooking the meals when I'd been the one lying in bed all day doing nothing. And, even thought he went out of the way to fix something I'd like, my illness left me with little appetite and, since I'd been ill, invariably I mostly picked at my food.

He gave me one of his infamous scowls. "Louisa, I know you're not hungry, but it's important you try to eat something. It'll give you strength."

I forced myself to eat a few bites of the pasta and then looked to change the subject. "Martin, has Eddie Tydings been to see you? Since he broke his wrist, that is."

Martin favored me with the look he always gave when I asked about his patients. "You know I don't—"

"You don't discuss your patients," I said. "Yes, I know. I'm not asking for details, Martin. A simple 'yes' or 'no' will do."

He put down his fork. "I organized a scan for his wrist in Truro for next week – to check that it's healing properly, but I haven't seen him in the surgery." His eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"

"I received a call today from Mr. Sands. Eddie's mother complained to the governors about bullying." I explained how I hadn't seen any evidence of it and, in fact, the boy seemed to get along well with the alleged perpetrator. "I figured if he was getting hurt at school or somewhere else, his mum would bring him to see you."

Martin shook his head. "She hasn't."

Well, that was good news. Maybe that and what I'd seen on the playground meant that whatever had been plaguing Eddie had stopped. Or so I hoped. The adage among teachers was that we spent ninety percent of our time on ten percent of our students and, lately, Eddie Tydings was proving to be a case in point.

By day fourteen, I'd come to a sudden realization – I enjoyed being home all day with my son. I was still too fatigued to provide full time care, but just knowing he and I were in the same cottage and often in the same room, was more comforting and fulfilling than I'd ever expected.

During those two weeks, I didn't miss a thing. I was there when Tommy first batted at his mobile and his toys and then, not long after that, when started to grasp things – my hand at first and then his rattle. I saw the recognition in his eyes when my face came into his view and that made me happier than anything. I looked on as he tried to push himself up on his hands and watched as he struggled to turn over from his tummy to his back – and was there when he finally did it. He seemed so proud of himself and I was equally proud of him.

I checked his progress with numerous milestone charts on the Internet, pleased to see that he was where he should be in most categories and maybe even a bit advanced (how I loved that word!) in one or two.

And I couldn't help but wonder which of these things I might have missed if I'd been at school. Of course I would have seen them, eventually. But I would have heard about them from Tanya, who would have experienced them first. And then I would have had to wait until Tommy did it again, for the second or fifth or twentieth time – at a time when I was there to witness it.

I was nursing Tommy in the early afternoon when the phone rang. Tanya poked her head into the room a minute later.

"It's the school for you, Miss."

I gazed down at my son, sucking contentedly with bright happy eyes and didn't want to interrupt the moment. "Is it an emergency?"

She shook her head. "They didn't say so."

"Ask. If it's not, tell them I'll call back as soon as I can."

"Of course, Louisa."

I ran my hand along Tommy's smooth arm until my finger was in his tiny hand and I felt his fingers wrap around mine and hold tight. I smiled and leaned back in my chair thinking that the only thing that would have made this moment more perfect was if Martin had been here with us.

On day sixteen, I finally turned the corner and, a day later, Martin let me go back to school for a few hours each day.

"Don't overdo it," he warned and for once I was more than willing to heed his advice. If I had any extra energy, I wanted to spend it on Tommy.

Finally, after more than three weeks being ill, I felt strong enough to return to my job full-time. And, to my surprise, Martin agreed.


	15. Chapter 15

I'd been back at work full-time for just over a week when Dorothy Adams stopped by my office just after eleven in the morning. "It's Eddie Tydings, Louisa," she said, crossing her arms and shaking her head. "I'm not sure what to do."

I looked up from the report cards I was reviewing and sighed heavily. "Now what?"

"He told me that he couldn't do gym class this morning because his tummy hurt. I told him that if he was too sick to go to class, I'd need to call the doctor."

It was a response that usually stopped malingering in its tracks. "What did Eddie say?"

"He went to class with the others."

As an experienced teacher, Dorothy was used to dealing with students trying to get out of class with flimsy medical excuses and she'd dealt with this issue appropriately. So there must be something more to the story.

"And?" I said, encouraging her.

"A few minutes ago," Dorothy continued, "one of the other boys came up to me and said he'd seen Eddie throwing up in the loo this morning."

I frowned. "Vomiting?"

Dorothy shrugged. "That's what he said. I'm not sure what to make of it, Louisa. I know we're supposed to be paying special attention to Eddie, so I thought it best to let you know."

"Right," I assured her. "Of course, you did the right thing. Where's Eddie now?"

"He's out on the playground."

"How does he seem to you?"

She shrugged. "Seems all right. Keeping to himself a bit, but that's not unusual for him. You know he's a bit of a loner."

"All right. You get back outside. I'll call Mart— Dr. Ellingham— and see what we should do."

A minute later, Martin was on the phone. "It's probably nothing more than a virus," he said, after listening to my report, "but abdominal pain and vomiting could indicate appendicitis. I'd best come have a look at him."

While waiting for Martin to arrive, I went outside to observe the children, who were playing a game of kickball. The early fall weather was somewhat brisk and this would probably be one of the few remaining days for outdoor games. Still, it always amazed me how children running about could be oblivious to the elements and, as teachers, we often had to remind them to dress appropriately. As I watched more closely, I could see that Dorothy had been right about Eddie. He was participating but wasn't particularly engaged in the game.

A few minutes later, Martin sidled up next to me, medical bag in hand. "Which one is he?"

Now that Eddie's cast was off, it wasn't as easy to pick him out among the sea of boys in identical uniforms. I pointed to the lanky blond, standing off to the side. "There."

Martin watched for another minute. "All right. Bring him to the infirmary."

I went over to Dorothy and told her to end the class early, which would make it easier for me to pull Eddie aside without making a fuss in front of the other students. As the children filed back into the school, Eddie was near the end of the line and Martin and I easily intercepted him.

"Eddie, the doctor wants to have a look at you."

The boy's eyes warily flitted between us. "What for?"

"Miss Adams said you had some stomach pain," I replied. "And I hear you were throwing up as well."

"It's nothing."

Martin stepped forward. "I'll be the judge of that."

Eddie stared longingly at the backs of his fellow pupils. "I want to go back to class."

"You will. After Doctor Ellingham's had a look at you," I added firmly. The health of my students was my responsibility as head teacher, and if our GP said they needed medical attention, I'd absolutely enforce that opinion. And, given the history with Eddie and his mother, I wanted to be completely sure he was healthy.

"Come on," Martin added impatiently. "I have patients waiting in the surgery."

I glared at him and reached out an arm to Eddie's shoulder to guide him inside. The boy shrugged me off and, with a fierce stare, marched into the building with obvious reluctance.

Inside the infirmary, Martin was all business. "Lie on the couch and undo your trousers," he said, retrieving the stethoscope from his case.

Martin hadn't asked me to leave so I stood on the opposite side of the exam table, determined to be a calming influence on Eddie – and to keep quiet.

"How long have you had the pain in your belly?" Martin asked.

"It's not bad."

"That's not what I asked."

"Just this morning, but it's okay now."

Martin rolled his eyes as he pushed up the boy's shirt and pressed on Eddie's abdomen. I could see that Martin was being quite gentle, barely exerting any pressure, but even so, Eddie squirmed under his touch.

"Well, it's not appendicitis," Martin said after a moment, probably for my benefit. I was relieved until I saw his face; he clearly wasn't happy with whatever his examination had revealed.

He pushed Eddie's shirt up even further, exposing the boy's chest. A deep frown crossed Martin's face and, when I glanced down to see what had provoked this reaction, couldn't stop a gasp.

The last time Martin had examined Eddie, after the football accident, there'd been a handful bruises on his torso and shoulders, something I at least had attributed to the normal wear and tear of young boys. Now, his entire chest seemed to be covered with bruises, creating an ugly rainbow of mottled yellow, purple, blue and brown. Eddie eyes were on mine, and it was all I could do to keep from reacting to the horrid sight.

I knew the best way to help was to draw the boy's attention away from Martin's examination. I moved toward Eddie's head, forcing his eyes to follow me, and gently brushed the hair out of his eyes.

Martin gave me a brief glance of gratitude as he probed the boy's chest and ribs. His fingers were feather light and yet every touch seemed to elicit a soft groan from Eddie and a slight grimace from Martin at the pain he was inflicting.

I took Eddie's hand and gently squeezed, trying to project a reassurance I didn't feel. I wanted to tell him Martin was almost finished but I had no idea what else was in store.

"A couple of these ribs look to be fractured," Martin said to no one in particular. He pressed the stethoscope against Eddie's chest and asked him to breathe in and out. That seemed to cause Eddie even more pain so Martin made short work of it.

"How did you get these bruises?" Martin asked in a voice that was unusually soft and gentle.

Eddie didn't meet his eyes. "Dunno."

Martin and I shared a glance over the table. There was no way Eddie could have received this number and severity of injuries by accident. How long had he been suffering like this? Had my teachers and I missed something?

Martin picked up Eddie's arm. "How's the wrist coming along?"

This earned him a tight smile. "All better. Got my cast off last week."

I recognized Martin's move for what it was – an effort to divert Eddie's attention from his other injuries.

As before, Martin ran his fingers along the bones of the forearm. "Good. It looks to have healed nicely." He let go of the arm. "Now, can you sit up and take off your shirt."

Eddie's smile vanished.

"Why?"

I cringed in anticipation of Martin's smart comeback and mentally pleaded with him to be careful with the boy.

To my surprise, he replied in a voice that again was soft and quiet. "I just need to have a quick look at your back."

"Can't I go back to class?" Eddie asked in a whingy voice.

Martin shook his head. "I need to finish checking you over first."

I reached for his shirt. "Come on, Eddie. Let me help you."

He shook his head in defiance. "I can do it!"

Martin gave me a look that told me to back off, and I immediately took a step back. "Of course you can," I reassured Eddie.

Martin stood there, waiting, and displaying a level of patience I'd never before seen. To me, his eyes seemed slightly haunted. He'd once told me that when he'd been "naughty," his father had taken to him with a belt and I wondered if Eddie's situation was causing those memories to resurface.

By the time Eddie pulled his shirt over his shoulders, I'd steeled myself for whatever might come. Even so, the sight of even more bruises on the boy's shoulders and down his back was nauseating.

Across the table, the only reaction from Martin was a slight tightening of his posture. This time, he looked more than touched, eventually pressing on what I knew – from the time he'd examined me during my pregnancy – were Eddie's kidneys. The right side elicited a wince but, when Martin put pressure on the left, Eddie cried out and for the first time I saw tears in his eyes.

Martin hissed, and I wasn't sure if it was frustration at causing Eddie pain or anger at what he was seeing. Probably both.

"Has there been blood in your pee?" he asked.

Eddie's eyes found the ceiling.

"Eddie," I said softly. "You need to answer Doctor Ellingham. He's trying to help you."

"A little, maybe." Eddie's voice was barely a whisper.

Martin didn't seem surprised by the answer. He blew out a breath and looked over at me. "Miss Glasson, could you step outside? Just for a minute."

The apology in his eyes let me know it wasn't a dismissal; he simply wanted privacy. I nodded, gave Eddie my most reassuring smile and another hand squeeze, and stepped into the hallway. Once there, I leaned heavily against the wall, sucking in deep breaths. What I'd seen in the last few minutes absolutely sickened me. I thought about Tommy and wondered how anyone could harm an innocent child.

David Elliot passed by, stopping when he saw me.

"Are you all right, Louisa?"

"Yes, I'm fine," I lied.

"How's Eddie?"

"The doctor's looking at him now." I wasn't yet ready to discuss this, even with my fellow teachers. He took the hint and moved on.

Less than five minutes later Martin joined me in the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"Oh, my God, Martin," I whispered.

His eyes were grim. "Not a pretty sight, is it?"

"Should I call his mother?"

"No. PC Penhale, I should think."

"Then you think—"

"I think the boy has been beaten, yes. Repeatedly, from the looks of it."

"His mother?" I asked, eyes wide.

He shrugged. "Possibly. Or the father. Certainly an adult."

I didn't even want to imagine how Martin had reached that conclusion. "I don't think the father lives around here."

He shrugged. "A boyfriend, maybe. That's up to the police to determine."

I had a sudden thought. "I know he was beaten but was Eddie—was he—"

"Sexually abused?"

I nodded, thankful that Martin had read my mind so I didn't have to say the words.

He shook his head. "I didn't find any evidence of that."

"Thank God." It was small comfort.

"He has some serious injuries – ribs and kidney at least. He'll need to go to Truro for some scans and, depending on what they'll show, he'll probably need to stay in hospital for a few days."

"I'll need to report this to the Child Safeguarding Board."

"Yes. But let's call Penhale first. He can contact the mother and then take the boy to Truro." He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door to the infirmary. "Perhaps you can stay with him while I make the necessary calls. Keep him calm and all that."

"Of course, Martin."

As Martin moved down the hallway, I considered what I would say and do when I walked back into the room with Eddie. In all my years of teaching, this was the first time I'd had to deal with child abuse on such an intimate level. The courses I'd taken hadn't provided instruction in how to deal with something like this. What in the world would I say?

I took a deep breath and approached the door.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:**

**I had some issues with this morning in uploading my latest chapter. There is only one new chapter posted, which is this one. I apologize for the confusion to those of you who get story updates. And I thank all of you who follow this story and especially those who provide feedback. It is much appreciated.**

* * *

><p>Inside the infirmary, Eddie sat on the edge of the bed, sniffing loudly. He'd put his clothes back on and, when I entered, looked at me with his puffy eyes that told me he'd been crying.<p>

"Eddie, can I get you something? Some water maybe?"

"I just want to go home."

"Doctor Ellingham says you need to go to hospital first." There was no need to tell him that he likely wouldn't be going home for some time – at least until the authorities determined whether his mother was involved in the abuse. "For some scans," I added. I wanted to promise that they wouldn't hurt, but I had no idea what was in store for him at the hospital and the last thing I wanted to do was lie.

"No! I don't want to go to hospital. Please don't make me." He started to cry again and I took his hands in mine, feeling a lump form in the pit of my stomach.

A second later, I mentally kicked myself. Eddie was the one truly hurting, physically and emotionally, and would need all of the support he could get. Starting with his head teacher.

"Eddie, remember when you hurt your wrist?" I managed to keep my voice both sympathetic and no nonsense. "And Doctor Ellingham sent you to Truro for x-rays and a cast. That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

"No," he sniffed.

"Well, now he wants to make sure your ribs are okay. And then they'll fix you up like they did last time."

"They can't give you a cast for your ribs, can they?"

In spite of myself, I smiled. "I don't think I've ever seen one of those."

"Where's my mom?"

I kept my gaze steady. "Someone will call her and let her know where you are." The answer was evasive, but truthful.

"Will she take me to hospital?"

"She'll probably see you there," I said, hoping Eddie didn't key in on the word "probably."

"Will you go with me?"

Without glancing at my watch, I realized that going to hospital with Eddie meant that it would be well past five by the time I got home. Still, I couldn't imagine sending Eddie alone with PC Penhale. The man was nice enough and would undoubtedly do his best to put Eddie at ease, but sending him to hospital with a police constable made it seem that the boy was the criminal.

I took his hand in mine. "Yes, Eddie, I'll go with you."

Eddie gave me a small smile through his tears. "You're nice, Miss Glasson. I'm glad you're my teacher."

I smiled back as my heart nearly broke.

* * *

><p>Later that evening, Martin and I sat together on my couch. In theory, he'd returned to his own cottage after I'd recovered from the pneumonia. In reality, since then, he'd come over after surgery every night save one, when a medical emergency had called him away.<p>

Tonight, I'd just finished nursing and burping Tommy, who now slept in his cot across the room from us. I inched closer to Martin, feeling the warmth emanating from his body.

"How's Eddie?" I asked, knowing Martin had just gotten off the phone with the hospital.

Martin slipped his arm around my shoulder and drew me closer. "Physically, he'll be all right. He has a bruised kidney, which will keep him in hospital for a few days but will heal completely in time, as will his ribs."

"I'm so glad," I replied as Martin's arm gently stroked my shoulder. "Have the police any idea who did this?"

"From what Penhale said, they think the mother's boyfriend is the most likely suspect. But it seems clear that Mrs. Tydings was at least aware of what was happening."

The thought infuriated and horrified me. I was furious that the woman had blamed other children for beating her child when the actual culprit was probably her own boyfriend. And then she'd blamed the school for not stopping something that she knew wasn't happening. And I was horrified that a mother could stand by while her own child was abused. I once again stared across the room to the cot where our son was sleeping. "How does a mother . . .?"

"Not all mothers love their children, Louisa."

I wondered if Martin was talking about his own mother. I still didn't know all of the details but I'd heard enough from Martin and Joan to realize that the relationship was not a loving one. But I also realized that, as far as Martin was concerned, this was a subject that was closed. "It's all so sad."

Martin pulled me closer into a tight embrace. "It was good of you to go with him to hospital."

"I couldn't let him go alone." And I'd felt guilty leaving him alone in hospital that evening but, it was either stay with Mrs. Tydings' son or come home to my own, and it was clear where I needed to be. "I wish I hadn't had to leave him."

"The nurses know the situation. They'll take good care of him, and I'll stop by tomorrow to see how he is. He'll be all right, Louisa. We'll make sure of it, won't we?"

"I hope so, Martin. I really hope so."

For several minutes, we didn't move. After six months of being on my own, another three enduring Martin's seeming anger, and the last three weeks of being ill, it felt so good simply to luxuriate in his touch, his warmth, his scent—"

"Louisa, may I stay with you tonight?"

I turned to him in surprise. He'd been staying with me for most of the past month. "Since when do you need to ask my permission?"

"I meant, er, _be_ with you." He suddenly looked embarrassed.

Oh, _that_ stay with me! My heart swelled.

"Am I being too forward?"

"No, Martin," I rushed to assure him. "Of course you can stay with me. I'd like that, very much."

Martin smiled and let loose a long breath he must have been holding. "It's been a long day. Should we go to bed? I mean, upstairs."

"Bed sounds good." The look he gave me sent a tingling through my body and it was my turn to smile. "Let me get Tommy."

While I busied myself putting Tommy to bed, Martin disappeared into the loo. When he came out a few minutes later, I had to blink twice to make sure I wasn't imagining things. He wore only his vest and pants, and carried his neatly folded suit over one arm and his shoes in his free hand. He carefully placed the suit on the room's only chair and the shoes on the floor beneath.

I was still fully dressed and started to pull my shirt over my head.

"Louisa." He sat down on the bed and beckoned me toward him. "Let me do that."

I stopped and looked at him, hoping he meant what I thought he meant but, with Martin, I was never sure. "Do what?"

"Undress you."

Unlike the frantic passion of the nights following his proposal when our clothes seemed magically to wind up in a tangled heap, this time Martin took his time. I rather wished I was wearing something more – interesting – than the sensible blouse, skirt and undergarments I'd put on this morning for what I'd expected would be yet another routine day of school.

Martin seemed not to notice as he carefully unbuttoned my blouse, taking one tiny button at a time in his large fingers. He moved so slowly that I couldn't help but think he was teasing me and thus I made no move to help him. When he was finished, he gave me a wicked smile before peeling the garment over my shoulders. Without saying a word, he quickly unzipped my skirt and allowed it to fall into a puddle at my feet.

By now, my own need was tearing at me and I reached for the hem of his vest. His hand met mine and gently pushed me away.

"Not yet, Louisa." His voice was low and husky. "Let me finish."

Once I'd stepped out of my skirt, his fingers reached behind me and unclasped the hooks of my bra. He spent some time caressing my breasts with his hands and his mouth—before moving his hands downward toward my knickers.

People probably assumed that Martin was a good lover because of his knowledge of female anatomy. I knew differently. What made Martin special was that, unlike most men I'd been with, he was focused on my pleasure rather than his own. Each time we'd made love, he'd made sure that I was fully satisfied before letting himself go.

Even now, I could see from the lusty look in his eyes and the rhythm of his breathing that Martin was at least as excited as I was. But he took his time, heightening my pleasure while restraining his own.

When I finally stood naked in front of him, his eyes roamed the length of my body. I knew Martin never stopped being a doctor and I worried that, even in the midst of our passion, he was examining me as a patient. I didn't want to think what his next words would be. Would he tell me that I was too fat, that I could stand to lose a few more pounds of my pregnancy weight? Or was I too thin after my weeks with pneumonia? Were my breasts too engorged with milk? Was there some new mole that looked suspicious? Did I need to shower? Or brush my teeth?

"Louisa." His voice was low and soft as his steel blue eyes met mine.

"Yes, Martin." I held my breath.

"You are . . . so beautiful." He pulled me closer to him, nuzzling his face in my chest. "I'd almost forgotten and I don't ever want to forget again."

He pulled me even closer and then it was my turn to finish undressing him.


	17. Chapter 17

My Thursday afternoon was filled with one of the more unpleasant aspects of my job as head teacher – discipline.

There's the old adage of being sent to the principal's office when you're naughty. It actually still happened. I was that principal and seven-year-old Kate Blaine had been sent to me for calling a fellow pupil a "bitch" at lunch in the cafeteria. It was Kate's first trip to my office for misbehavior and I could see that, although she was trying to put on a brave front, her knees were trembling as she approached my desk. I let her stand there for a short bit while I pretended to review the notice of misconduct.

I reminded myself of the tenets of primary school discipline: consistency, patience, and teaching. All children needed boundaries and limits and enforcing them was the best thing we adults could do. At this primary school level, discipline was more about love than punishment.

After nearly a full minute, I made eye contact with the girl. "So, Katherine," I started, using her formal name to show I meant business. "I've read what Mr. Collins said happened in the cafeteria this afternoon. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Kate quickly dropped her head and stared at her shoes. "Nothing, Miss Glasson." So much for bravado.

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"No, Miss Glasson." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Kate, look at me," I said gently and waited until her eyes met mine. "Do you think it's okay to say what you did to Eleanor?"

"No, Miss Glasson."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Dunno."

I wasn't going to let her get away with the non-answers. "You can do better than that."

"I was mad at her, okay. She took my brownie and ate it. It was mine!"

Well, her explanation was a start; at least she was communicating. "And what are you supposed to do if something like that happens?"

"Tell my teacher," Kate answered in a dull monotone.

"That's right. Is there some reason you didn't do that?" I was careful to avoid any accusation in my voice.

"No, Miss Glasson."

"Do you know what the word you used even means?"

Kate shrugged with one shoulder. "Not . . . really."

"Where did you learn that word?"

"It's what my dad says to my mum when he's mad at her."

I wasn't surprised at her response; it seemed most youngsters learned inappropriate language from parents who don't stop to think about the consequences of saying such things in front of their children.

I spent the next few minutes explaining to Kate why what she'd done was inappropriate and reminding her again of proper way to deal with misbehaving fellow pupils. Since this was her first disciplinary infraction, I sent her off with a detention during the next day's recess and a stern warning. And, I made a note to follow up with her parents the next morning about using inappropriate language in front of their daughter.

The second incident was more serious, involving a Year 5 pupil who'd forged his mother's signature on a tardiness note. Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time the child had been trouble and the escalating trend of the misconduct was disturbing.

The boy's parents, whom I'd summoned to discuss the incident, were as concerned as I was but expressed helplessness in getting their son to behave.

"We don't know what to do, Miss Glasson," the mother said. "We've tried all the things the books recommend – timeouts, taking away privileges, rewarding good behavior and all that – and nothing seems to work."

I recalled Martin had once suggested that some children were simply "bad." I wasn't sure I believed that. There was no question that some children presented more disciplinary challenges than others. However, I believed that all children could be taught to behave – some simply needed more time and attention from parents and teachers, and this boy appeared to be one of those.

I spent more than twenty minutes discussing what might be done. In the end, we agreed that the boy would be given two days of detention and prohibited from participating in the next field trip. In addition, I'd contact the district counselor regarding behavior modification therapy.

I felt good about the afternoon as I gathered up my things. The two sessions had gone well and, with no additional school commitments this afternoon, I'd be home a bit early. I checked my watch as I left the school; it was just after four. If I hurried – and didn't get stopped on my way by a parent, pupil or just well-meaning local – I'd be home in ten minutes, which might even allow me to take Tommy on a short stroll before dark.

It was a typically Cornish early evening, cloudy and cool with the omnipresent threat of rain. The fall skies were starting to darken and in another hour it would be twilight. I sucked in some deep breaths as I climbed the hill between the school and my cottage. Even though Martin had assured me that medically I was fully recovered from the pneumonia, my energy levels still lagged a bit below normal.

Mrs. Hedspeth stopped me halfway up the hill to tell me how much she'd enjoyed the fall pageant. I remembered that her granddaughter was one of our students. I thanked her as quickly as politeness would allow then begged off.

I switched my bag, laden with spelling papers and the next week's lesson plans, to my other shoulder. I invariably had more homework than my pupils and by now had learned to feed Tommy with one hand and correct papers, draft report cards, or review lesson plans with the other. It was the only way to get it all done.

I turned the corner, headed up the last stretch of hill and stopped short. There was no mistaking the huge silver Lexus parked outside my cottage. I couldn't think of a time Martin had stopped by before the end of his surgery day and, when he came for social reasons, he always walked.

It was more than an hour before the surgery closed and Martin had driven to my cottage. I tried to convince myself it was nothing – he'd simply driven his car to my house in the middle of the day. Perfectly normal. If anything had been amiss, Tanya would have called—

Oh my God! My phone had been off for more than an hour. I'd shut it off so I wouldn't be disturbed during the afternoon meetings and, in my rush to get out of school early, I'd forgotten to turn it back on or check for messages. It had only been an hour and I'd thought . . .

How could I have been so stupid and irresponsible?

Now the sight of the car caused my heart to beat faster. Something must be wrong. It had to be Tommy. Something was wrong with Tommy. And whatever it was, it was bad enough for Tanya to call Martin.

My throat was suddenly parched and my heart was pounding.

I raced the remaining forty yards, oblivious to the fact it was almost straight uphill, my shoes biting painfully into my bare feet and my bag hitting heavily against my back. None of that mattered. I would have run ten miles to get to my son.

Panting and breathless, I pushed open my front door. The first thing I saw was Tanya, wringing her hands and looking at me with wide eyes that were slightly petrified.

"Oh, Louisa!" She rushed toward me. "Thank goodness you're here. I tried phoning you—"

I did my best to keep my voice calm. "What's wrong?"

"It's Tommy. He started throwing up, more than I've ever seen before, and then he started choking. I didn't know what to do. I tried calling you but no one answered so I called Doc Martin and he came over straight away—"

Vomiting. Choking. Oh God. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs. Told me to stay here—"

Without waiting for her to finish, I dumped my bag and dashed up the stairway, the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach not unlike what I'd experienced when Peter Cronk had tumbled from the gym apparatus, only this was a thousand times worse. This wasn't my pupil, it was my son.

I stumbled on the steps, banging my knee hard against the wooden riser. I barely noticed the pain or the bruise that was likely to form as I picked myself up and rushed to the top of the stairs and then to the door of my bedroom, terrified of what I would find when I got there. I hadn't heard Tommy cry since I'd arrived. What if he was already dead?

From the open doorway, I could see Martin bending over the changing table, stethoscope dangling around his neck. His large body hid Tommy from view and I still didn't hear him crying. Was Tommy breathing? Was he even alive?

"Martin!" I cried, too frightened to enter the room.


	18. Chapter 18

Martin turned to face me, his features relaxed. "It's all right, Louisa. Tommy's fine."

I tried to process the words. Fine, he'd said. Tommy wasn't dead; he was alive. He was fine. I sucked in a deep breath and tried to slow down my breathing.

"He's fine? Are you sure?"

Martin gave me the annoyed look he used whenever I questioned his medical opinion. "Of course I'm sure."

He picked up Tommy, naked but for his nappie, from the table and held him, the baby looking tiny in his large arms. Tommy was his normal color, breathing, eyes open, even squirming a bit. And, as I watched, he started making the sounds that I knew would lead to outright crying in but a moment.

I continued to breathe heavily. "Tanya said he was . . . throwing up and . . . couldn't breathe—"

"I know that." Martin frowned at me. "Louisa, sit down on the bed."

"I don't want to sit down!"

"Louisa, you're hyperventilating. You need to sit down and calm down. Please."

I lowered myself to the bed, not taking my eyes from Tommy. "Martin, of course I'm hyperventilating. My son almost died."

"Tommy didn't almost die. He had a minor medical issue—"

"Minor!" I gulped in another breath. "I don't think that choking is . . . a minor—"

"Wait here," he said and, taking Tommy with him, headed down the stairs. I heard voices and the sound of the front door opening and closing; he'd probably sent Tanya home. I wished I'd been able to say something to her, to thank her for doing the right thing in getting him here so quickly.

I was still panting when Martin returned less than a minute later, holding a still squirming Tommy. He handed me a brown paper bag. "Breathe into this."

"Martin!"

"Louisa, you're having a panic attack. Breathe into the bag."

I did as instructed, remembering the night when Mrs. Cronk was the one having the panic attack and breathing into a bag. At the time, I'd thought her a bit crazy and couldn't understand why she couldn't remain calm in order to help Peter. Now, I understood.

Martin watched carefully as my breathing returned to normal. "I'm sorry," I said, setting aside the bag.

"No need to be." Martin held a squirming Tommy out to me. "Maybe you should hold him. I think he's a bit cranky from my examination."

I carefully took the baby from Martin's large hands, holding him like an eggshell and still trying to grasp the fact that he was okay. I stared at his perfectly formed features and held his tiny hand in my own. "He's really all right?"

Martin pulled off his stethoscope. "He had a bit of reflux. It's very common in infants and can cause them to vomit, which in turn can lead to a bit of choking. Alarming, but not serious."

"Why does it happen?"

"In babies, the valve at the end of the esophagus hasn't fully developed, so when the stomach is full, food and acid can come back up. He'll grow out of it in another month or so."

I looked down at Tommy, who seemed to be relaxing in my arms. "His nose is running."

"Yes. His lungs are clear but it wouldn't surprise me if he's developing a mild respiratory infection."

"Respiratory infection?" Now what?

"The common cold. Babies do get them, with some frequency I might add."

"Martin, how can you be so unfeeling? This isn't just some random patient. It's our son! He was vomiting and choking and now you tell me he has a respiratory infection."

Martin took a deep breath and I had the sudden thought that he was trying hard not to say the wrong thing - as he so often did in such circumstances. "Louisa, I know it seems terrifying, but I assure you, Tommy was in no danger. Is in no danger."

"But he might have been." Why couldn't Martin understand what I was saying? "What if it _had_ been something serious and I wasn't here?"

"Tanya did the right thing in calling me right away."

"But I wasn't here. I was at school talking about detention for God's sake."

"Yes, you were at school. And I was at the surgery."

"And neither of us was here with Tommy. Oh, Martin, what are we doing? What am I doing?" I was holding onto Tommy for dear life.

* * *

><p>Martin stayed with us as I set about feeding Tommy and getting him ready for bed. Tonight, I tried not to take any of the steps for granted and, instead, to savor every moment of our normal routine. Martin might be cavalier about the day's events, but I couldn't stop myself from thinking about what might have happened.<p>

Until Tommy was born, the children at my school had always been my first priority. Whether it was coming in early or staying late, or working long nights and weekends, they always came first. Now, all that had changed and I found myself resenting time spent on my pupils because every extra minute with them was one away from my son.

Six months ago, I'd been convinced that I could do it all. I'd told Martin, the school governors and anyone else who'd listen that I could be the head teacher and a mum at the same time. And, it went without saying that I could do both extremely well. Now, I was discovering that I couldn't do both – or maybe, now knowing what doing both required, I no longer wanted to.

I reflected on the roughly three months since I'd returned to school. I'd pushed my body until it had broken down with pneumonia, leaving me no good to Tommy or my students for weeks. I'd been at school when Tommy had suffered a medical crisis. And, I'd failed to recognize that one of my students was being physically abused. No one was complaining about my performance as teacher or mother, but increasingly I felt I was failing at both. I didn't know which was worse – my own feelings of ineptitude or the fact that maybe Martin Ellingham had been right after all.

I wanted to discuss the situation with Martin, but we didn't exactly have a good track record where serious discussions were concerned. Invariably, we either failed to communicate or ended up arguing, often over something totally unrelated to what we were originally talking about.

Finally, with Tommy securely tucked in his cot, I joined Martin on the couch, sitting so that my left side was curled into him and tucking my legs under me. I wasn't sure if he'd stayed to keep tabs on both of us medically or if he understood I didn't want to be alone tonight.

"Tommy's asleep," I said. "Thank you again for coming right over."

"It's my . . ."

_Please don't tell me it's your job, _I silently pleaded.

"Son," he finished. "Our son. Of course I'd come immediately. You know I always will."

I sighed with relief. I'd always believed he'd put our son's health first, just as he'd put mine first for so many years. But it was still refreshing, and gratifying, to hear him actually say the words.

"Martin, I was so frightened." I shuddered at the memory of rushing up the stairs not knowing if my son was alive or dead.

His right arm gently caressed my shoulder and my head dropped onto his chest. "Louisa, all children have minor medical emergencies. Tommy will have his share during his life."

"But I wasn't here. When our son needed me, I was off taking care of someone else's children."

"As a teacher, that's what you do. And what I do as a doctor."

"And who's here for Tommy?"

"Tanya was here and she called me immediately. And you know that there's more to being a parent than being physically present."

Again I wondered if he was referring to his own parents, a subject he still wasn't comfortable discussing. "Martin." I faced him. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes, you can."

"Why did you want to go back to surgery in London?"

When he didn't answer, I quickly added. "It's all right. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, Louisa, you deserve to know." I heard and felt him take a deep breath and slowly let it out. His arm dropped from my shoulder back into his lap.

"Once you left, Portwenn was . . . intolerable. I sat in my surgery every day treating runny noses and sore throats and ingrown toenails. And those were the patients with actual medical complaints. I spent hours more listening to tales of loneliness, infidelity, and general unhappiness with life. And I wondered what I was doing here."

It was as many words as I'd heard Martin say at one time and one of the very rare occasions when I'd gotten so much as a peek into his complex life and even more complex mind. I kept silent, even as I mentally urged him to continue.

"As a surgeon, I saved lives. Every day, what I did in the operating theater mattered and quite honestly, there were very few people who had my skill with a scalpel."

He said it matter-of-factly, without a touch of bravado, and I was sure it was true. The "Midas touch" he'd once called it.

"I had a gift that was being wasted giving MMR jabs and treating head lice," Martin continued. "And then when I was in Truro and ran into Edith Montgomery; well, seeing her reminded me of all I'd lost. She was at the pinnacle of her career –researching, publishing, lecturing. It's what I would have been doing but for my blasted blood thing. I missed that. And with you gone, there was nothing to keep me in Portwenn. I figured I might as well return to London.

"So you tried to overcome the blood thing?"

"I'd been a surgeon before and if I could just get over my hemophobia, I could do it again. I tried everything – desensitization, visualization, even a bloody psychologist."

I couldn't quite get my mind around the thought of Martin seeing a psychologist, and the fact he'd done so showed the level of desperation he must have felt.

"And you took the job in London," I said, "so you must have succeeded. But when Tommy was born . . . " I didn't have to add that at the sight of his son covered in a bit of bloody mucous, Martin had needed to rush out of the pub to throw up.

"I thought I'd overcome it. Or maybe I was simply deluding myself."

"Martin, if it weren't for your blood thing, would you be here or still in London?"

He was silent for a moment and I wondered if he'd answer. He reached over and took my left hand in his own large ones.

"I want to be where you are, Louisa. I realized that I'd never be happy in London or anywhere else if I wasn't with you."

It was the most beautiful thing he'd said to me since he'd asked me to marry him over a year ago. "And being a surgeon? Do you still wish you could do that?"

I had to know. After the events of the past few months, had he finally found peace as our GP or would he forever be drawn back to his first career and his first love in medicine?

"I once told you that surgery was the only thing I was ever any good at." He shrugged. "Chris Parsons keeps trying to convince me that I make a fair GP. Even so, it's . . . hard . . . to turn away from a job that you love and that you are – or were – very good at."

Although I knew Martin was referring to himself and surgery, he could easily have been talking about my position as head teacher.

For a moment I sat in silence, absorbing the enormity of what Martin had just said, and what he'd done. He'd given up the thing most important in his life – surgery – for Tommy and me. I couldn't even begin to comprehend what that meant. For me, teaching was important; for Martin, surgery was . . . everything . . . the only thing he was ever any good at, at least from his perspective.

I was the one who'd complained about his not being involved in Tommy's life. I'd criticized him for not wanting to be a father. And yet, he'd now sacrificed everything to do just that.

What had I sacrificed for my son? And, more importantly, what was I willing to sacrifice?

Leaving my hand in his, I turned around on the sofa until I was facing him. "When Tommy was born, you said you'd been wrong. I was the one who was wrong."

"About what?" Martin was giving me a quizzical look.

"I told you that I could be a mum and a head teacher." I took a breath. "I can't."

"Louisa, I don't think—"

"Martin, let me finish."

He closed his mouth in mid-sentence.

"When I had pneumonia and had to stay home from school, I realized how much I loved just being with Tommy. I hadn't realized how much I'd enjoy watching him do all the stupid little things that babies do and to see him learning every single day. I don't want to miss a minute of that. I want to be here when he says his first word and takes his first step. I want to be with him when he's sick or hurt or just upset. And I can't do that and be the head teacher."

"I know how important teaching is to you."

"Tommy is the most important thing in my life. Someone else can be the head teacher; I'm the only one who can be Tommy's mum."

"But you're a very good head teacher."

I smiled at the compliment, remembering fondly the day not long after he'd come to Portwenn when he'd called me "the best candidate by far."

"And you were a great surgeon. And now you're a great GP. I can still teach, or even tutor, something that will let me spend more time with Tommy."

"Louisa, don't make too much of what happened today or even the past few weeks. It will take time to sort out."

"Martin, six months ago, you didn't think you could stand another moment as the GP in Portwenn and I didn't think I could stand not to be the head teacher. That little baby upstairs has changed both of us. It just took me a little longer to realize it."

"Are you sure that's what you want? Will you be satisfied with someone else as the head teacher?"

"I'll speak to Mr. Sands first thing tomorrow and recommend Dorothy Adams to take my place. She's ready for it. And I can go to teaching one or two classes a day for now." I changed position on the couch so that I was once again sitting next to him and this time he pulled me close.

"So, Louisa. What about us?" he asked. "It's rather awkward, my coming here almost every night."

I frowned. "You needn't come over if it's awkward, Martin."

"I didn't mean that. I meant . . ."

"What Martin?"

"It would be easier if we were together . . . in the same house, that is."

"Martin, what are you saying?"

"Louisa, I've asked before and I've no right to ask again, but . . . will you marry me?"


	19. Chapter 19

Marriage. It was what I'd dreamed about so many times. Martin and I as husband and wife, a family with our son. The very fact that, after all we'd been through this past year, Martin still wanted to marry me filled me with boundless joy. And I knew it would be so very easy to say "yes." Just the one word and my frequent visions of the two of us saying our vows would finally come true.

Almost immediately, however, doubt began to intrude on my happy thoughts. We were already going through so much. Martin and I were both making major changes to our careers and our lives, and we had no idea how those would turn out. How would I handle staying home with Tommy? Would I get frustrated – or bored? And how would I deal with working at the school with someone else taking over my role as head teacher? Could I hold back the comments and suggestions about how I would do things?

Would Martin really find satisfaction as our GP or, every time he read a surgical journal, would he wonder what might have been? Would he be happy spending not a few years but the rest of his life in the tiny Cornish backwater of Portwenn? How would _he_ deal with a future of changing nappies and playing Legos and watching his son at Saturday morning football games?

I couldn't speak for Martin, but I knew that I needed to find happiness and fulfillment in my own life before I could commit to a life with him. I believed in the sanctity of marriage and understood that Martin wanted to do the right thing by me, and by our son. And I loved him for that.

For me, the idea of marriage was suddenly overwhelming. Much as the emotional part of me wanted it more than anything, the sensible part said it was simply too much too soon.

"Louisa?" Martin's blue eyes were slightly misted. "Have I said something to upset you?"

I shook my head fiercely. "No, Martin. What you said is lovely. And, I do want to marry you so very much."

He sighed. "But."

"It's such a big step and I'm not sure we're ready for that, or at least if I'm ready for it."

"I . . . see." The disappointment on his face was almost physically painful.

"No, you don't. I want us to be together as a family."

His eyes narrowed in confusion. "I . . . don't understand."

"I thought that before we try marriage, maybe we might try staying together. For a while," I added, "to see how it works."

"You want to live together and not be married?" Martin was clearly trying to get his head around my suggestion.

"Only until we see if we can make each other happy. Unless." I paused, gauging his reaction. "Unless it would make you uncomfortable, not being married or whatever."

"No, it wouldn't make me uncomfortable. I only thought that . . ."

I smiled. "You want to make an honest woman of me."

Martin smiled. "Something like that."

"Martin, I don't care what anyone in Portwenn thinks or says about me other than you." Between the return of my father and my own return pregnant and unmarried more than six months ago, there was nothing anyone in this village could say at this point to hurt me.

"All right then," he conceded. "If that's what you want."

I almost couldn't believe what I'd proposed – and that Martin had agreed. We were going to live together as a family, under the same roof. Waking up together, eating together, taking care of Tommy together. Tommy would have a real father and I would have . . . Martin. I couldn't stop myself from smiling at the prospect.

There was still so much to consider – where would we live? I wasn't sure I wanted to live over the surgery and my cottage was small for the three of us. How would I handle Martin's frequent night calls and home visits? His patients had always come first – they'd been interrupting our outings and conversations for years. Would he ever be able to say "later" or even "no" to his patients when the baby or I needed his attention?

I forced my myself to relax and my mind to slow down. We'd have time to deal with all of that. We'd both have to learn to adjust, just as any couple did. And, if we managed to make it all work out, maybe one day we'd both be ready – even excited – to walk down the aisle and take our marriage vows. One day.

I took Martin's hand in mine and stared into his eyes. "I know that you love me and love Tommy. And we're going to be a family. For now, that's all I need."

"I'll always love you, Louisa even though sometimes I'm not very good at showing it."

"You could work on it now," I said playfully.

He looked at me in surprise. "Work on what?"

"Showing how much you love me."

"Yes, I suppose I could."

He took my head in his hands, pressed his lips to mine, and went about doing just that.

~The End~

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Final Notes:<strong>

**My sincere thanks to everyone who took the time to provide feedback on my story. I didn't always acknowledge every comment but I read and truly appreciated every single one! You folks are the best and such a source of encouragement! **

**One more shout out to my beta, Diane B. Her comments were insightful, timely and incredibly valuable. My story was all the better for her efforts - especially the final chapters.**

**I'm on a DM FF break for now, but like General MacArthur, I shall return!**


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